Текст книги "Love me stalk me"

Автор книги: Laura Bishop

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PLEASE HOLD WHILE I SELF-ACTUALIZE

IZZY

I sit on Callahan's bed.

His actual bed.

And it's so much worse than I thought it would be. Because it smells like him. Like clean laundry, cedar, and something masculine that I don't have a name for but would 100% buy in candle form if that were an option. The scent wraps around me, as though the mattress itself has absorbed his presence.

And he's standing there, watching me, like he's trying very hard to figure out if we're about to make a huge mistake.

I clear my throat, pretending like I’m unaffected. "So, the security brief," I say, crossing my legs like I'm totally unbothered. The casual pose feels forced, even to me.

He blinks like he forgot why we were here. Then he shakes his head, pulls out his phone, and starts scrolling before finally sitting down next to me.

The mattress dips under his weight. And that's when I realize just how small this bed is. Because suddenly, he's very close. Close enough that I can feel the warmth of his body, the slight shift in the bed whenever he moves. Close enough that my breath catches in my throat for half a second.

I grab my tablet from my bag, because I don't go anywhere without it, and then I lock my eyes on it, pretending like I'm absorbing all the numbers and graphs in front of me, but all I can think about is how aware I am of him.

The way his broad shoulders take up too much space.

The way his thigh is inches from mine.

The way his scent lingers in the air around us.

I force myself to focus, taking a deep breath that only fills my lungs with more of his scent.

"Right," he mutters, his voice gruffer than usual. "The security brief."

We spend the next twenty minutes going over store security plans for the upcoming holiday season.

Yes, it's March.

Yes, that means Christmas is nine months away.

And yes, that means we have to start planning now, because Christmas in retail is basically a war zone, and only the prepared survive. The thought of the coming chaos makes my breath quicken with preemptive anxiety.

Callahan leans back against the wall, his arm resting behind him, his shirt stretched perfectly across his chest as he talks through the biggest security concerns. The fabric pulls taut over his muscles with each gesture, a reminder of what I glimpsed this morning in my kitchen.

"Holiday season means bigger crowds, bigger transactions, and more theft," he says. "Both petty and organized."

I nod, already pulling up the last quarter’s trend reports on my tablet. "Yeah, I flagged a spike in team-based losses last year. Mostly high-end merchandise, gone before the cameras caught anything useful."

He gives a small, appreciative nod. "Exactly. We’re talking professional-level theft rings. They send in people who blend into the crowd, work in coordinated units, and clear out entire displays before anyone even realizes what’s missing."

I glance up at him. "You think we’re already seeing signs?"

"Not full-scale yet," he says. "But yeah. I think someone’s testing the waters. Patterns in movement, item targeting, timing. It’s just too clean."

A chill runs through me despite the warmth of the room. I cross one leg over the other and scan the latest analytics. "So, what’s our play?"

"For now, I keep watching. Track repeat foot traffic, analyze purchase habits, isolate blind spots. Build a net before they realize we’re onto them."

I bite the inside of my cheek, thinking. "Sounds like we’re not dealing with amateurs."

"We’re not," he says, straightening. "You ready for Christmas in hell?"

I groan, slumping forward. "Kill me now."

He chuckles, shaking his head. "It'll be fine."

I scoff, feeling the pressure of responsibility settle across my shoulders. "I'm not so sure about that."

His attention is unwavering, focused entirely on me as he waits for me to elaborate.

I sigh, the sound heavy in the quiet apartment. "It's my first Christmas as the store manager."

That makes him pause.

I chew on my lip, suddenly anxious. My teeth worry the sensitive skin there, a nervous habit I've never been able to break. "It's all on me. The sales, the staffing, the freaking window displays. And if things go wrong⁠—"

"They won't."

But I shake my head, looking away. “I don’t know. There’s so much I wasn’t told before. Corporate never looped me in on any of this when I was assistant manager,” I say, trying to keep my voice even. “And the last store manager… he kept things need-to-know, and apparently I never needed to know.”

“I’ve read the reports now. I’ve gone through the shrink logs, tracked the patterns, built out a response plan—but I’m still playing catch-up. And if you hadn’t filled me in about the theft rings, I’d still be flying blind.”

Something tightens in my chest. Not panic. Not incompetence. Just that cold, persistent pressure of responsibility pressing down.

“I can handle it. I will handle it. But it’s a lot. Coordinating staff, covering for gaps, prepping for the Christmas rush—which is always chaos even without the looming possibility of organized crime in the building?”

I rub my temples, feeling the early warning flare of a headache pulsing behind my eyes. “It’s just… a lot to hold all at once.”

Callahan is silent, and then he leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees. The mattress shifts beneath his weight, bringing us closer together.

"You're not alone in this, Izzy."

I’m startled by the way he says it—so steady, so sure. His eyes hold mine, unwavering.

"I know it feels like all of this is on you, but it's not. You have me."

A lump forms in my throat. I look away, unable to meet his stare. The warmth of his words settles somewhere deep inside me.

"I don't know if that's enough," I admit, voice quieter.

The muscles in his face visibly tense.

"It is," he says. "Because I know what I'm doing. And you? You're smart as hell, and you give a damn about this store more than anyone else does."

I let out a shaky breath, the compliment catching me off guard.

Callahan tilts his head, watching me. "The old manager—he was an ass, wasn't he?"

I let out a half-laugh, half-scoff. "You have no idea."

He waits, so I continue, finding the words coming easier now.

"He was one of those old-school, traditional retail guys. The kind who thought women should be sales associates, not in management. He kept stuff from me on purpose."

Callahan’s expression darkens. "You deserved better than that."

I blink at him, caught off guard by how serious he sounds.

"I'm serious, Izzy," he says, leaning in slightly. "You're good at this. You belong in this position."

And the way Callahan says it—like it's not even a question, like it's a fact, like I'd have to be insane to doubt it—hits me in a way I wasn't expecting.

"I'm just afraid of failing," I admit, voice quieter.

"You won't," he says immediately.

I let out a shaky breath, rubbing my thumb over my knee. "I just—I put so much into this job. If I screw up, it's not just me that suffers. It's the whole store. It's the employees who rely on me. It's⁠—"

"It's pressure," he finishes, watching me carefully.

I nod. "Yeah."

He falls silent, watching me closely, as if he’s trying to understand how much I’m holding together. Then, slowly, he exhales.

"Do you trust me?"

I freeze.

Because the way he says it—like it's a real question that actually matters—hits somewhere deep and unsteady inside of me. I lick my lips, shifting slightly on the bed. "I⁠—"

His eyes hold mine, demanding honesty.

"Yes or no, Izzy."

I swallow, the question sinking into me.

And then, quietly, truthfully⁠—

"Yes."

"Good," he says.

I frown slightly, uncertain. "Why?"

"Because," he says, leaning in just enough to steal the air from my lungs, "if you trust me, then you’ll trust me when I tell you that I’ll be there with you and I won’t let you fail.”

"Thank you," I say, softly, because what else am I supposed to say? The words feel too small, too fragile, compared to the enormity of his promise.

Then he leans back slightly, his expression shifting.

"So," he says, his words light to break the tension. "Are we done panicking, or do I need to find a paper bag for you to breathe into?"

I snort, rolling my eyes. "Shut up."

His smirk grows. "That's a yes."

I exhale, shaking my head. "Okay, I think that's enough Christmas PTSD bonding for one morning."

Callahan lifts an eyebrow, amusement tugging at his mouth. "Oh, we're calling it bonding now?"

I roll my eyes. "Trauma bonding, then."

He chuckles. "I feel like that applies to a lot of our conversations."

I laugh, shaking my head. "God, that's actually true."

"So, what do you do for the holidays?" he asks, shifting the conversation.

I shrug. "The usual. Big family gatherings. My parents are very Catholic, so tomorrow, I have to go to Palm Sunday Mass."

His brow lifts slightly. "You sound thrilled."

I groan. "Look, I don't hate church, but when you grow up with three overprotective brothers and a mom who still calls to remind you that Jesus is watching, it gets...exhausting."

Callahan chuckles. "And after Mass?"

I roll my eyes dramatically. "Big family dinner. Loud. Chaotic. My Nonna asks when I’m getting married, my mom criticizes my outift, my brothers attempt to grill me about my love life, and my dad just sits there looking mildly disappointed in all of us."

Callahan shakes his head. "Sounds fun."

I raise a brow. "Fun?"

He shrugs. "Better than spending it alone."

I pause, tilting my head. His words carry a weight that suggests experience.

"Is Evan going with you?" he asks.

I scoff. "No. He and my family don't get along."

Callahan’s mouth curves in a wry half-smile. "Gee, I wonder why."

I roll my eyes, but I don't argue. Because he's right. My family hates Evan. And honestly? They have a point. My brothers saw through him from day one, a fact I've been ignoring for far too long.

Before I can think too much about that, I shift the conversation. "What about you?"

He shrugs. "It's just me and my dad."

Something about the way he says it feels heavy.

I pause. "And your mom?"

"She died when I was a kid." His voice is flat, matter-of-fact.

I frown, my chest tightening. "Oh. I'm so sorry."

He shakes his head. "Alcohol took her. It was her demon and she didn't try and fight it."

I don't know what to say to that. The rawness of the admission makes me wish I hadn't asked.

Instead, I clear my throat. "Where does your dad live?"

"Pennsylvania," he says. "Owns a wood shop out there. He likes to keep busy."

I nod. "Do you see him often?"

Callahan shrugs. "Not as often as I should."

"Is he religious?" I ask after a beat.

"Yeah," Callahan says. "Not Catholic, though."

"Well, Easter is still an important holiday."

His eyes study my face as though trying to read something there.

"You should call him," I say, shrugging. "Before next Sunday. Maybe you guys could talk."

He exhales, looking away. "Yeah. Maybe."

I nod, letting the silence settle for just a moment. Because I think he might actually be considering it. And I don't know why that makes me feel like I did something good.

"So," I say, trying to steer us into calmer waters. "What do you even do for fun? Since I ruined your Friday night, I feel like I should make it up to you."

Callahan lifts a brow. "You didn't ruin anything. I told you, I made the choice to stay."

I roll my eyes. "Okay, but still. What does Callahan do for fun on weekends?"

He leans back slightly, looking way too relaxed. "Not much."

"Define ‘not much.’"

He shrugs. "I work out. Cook for the week."

I narrow my eyes. "That's it?"

"Pretty much."

I gape at him. "You don't go out? Drink? Have a little fun?"

His expression shifts slightly, and I know I've just said something wrong. The air in the room seems to cool by several degrees.

"I don't really drink," he says, voice even. "Not after what happened with my mom."

Oh.

Oh, shit.

I instantly regret it. “I shouldn’t have said that. I’m so sorry.”

A subtle change crosses his face—curiosity, maybe concern—but it’s gone almost as fast as it appears.

"You apologize a lot, you know that?"

I press my lips together. "Well, yeah, I⁠—"

He tilts his head. "Why?"

"What do you mean, why?"

"You say sorry like it's a reflex," he says, watching me. "Like you think you have to. Even when you didn't actually do anything wrong."

I open my mouth. Close it.

I scoff. "Jeez. Everyone in my life is trying to work on my self-esteem these days."

He deadpans. "Can't imagine why."

I huff, shaking my head. "First Amanda, then you, then Caleb."

Callahan furrows his brows. "Who's Caleb?"

I freeze.

Fuck.

Think. THINK.

I lick my lips, my heartbeat suddenly loud in my ears. "Uh...he's my therapist."

Nailed it.

Callahan nods, seemingly satisfied. "That's good. Is it helping?"

"Huh?"

"Therapy. You finding it helpful?"

I shift in place, panicking. "Oh. Yeah. Totally."

Callahan watches me, like he's assessing if I'm lying.

Which, technically, I'm not.

Because Caleb is kind of like a therapist.

A therapist that made me come last night in my drunken state—which is probably a massive violation of patient-doctor ethics or whatever—but Callahan doesn't need to know that. I clear my throat. "So, uh⁠—"

My phone buzzes, the sound jarring in the quiet apartment.

I glance down and grimace.

Evan.

Ugh.

Callahan notices immediately. "That him?"

I nod, biting my lip.

I hesitate, about to decline the call, but then I glance at Callahan.

"Sorry," I murmur. "Do you mind?"

He watches me closely and sits up a little straighter. The mattress shifts beneath us.

"Yes. I do. I don't like the idea of you talking to that asshole ever again."

I suck in a breath, because he says it so casually. Like it’s just a plain fact, like it’s completely normal to drop something that possessive into a conversation like this. Like he’s been thinking it for a while.

"But you should still make your own decision," he adds, leaning back, arms crossed. "Answer it. Or don't. But don't do it because you think you have to."

I stare at him, the phone still buzzing in my hand.

And for the first time ever, I hesitate before answering Evan's call. But my anxiety wins out, and the moment I do, Evan's voice explodes through the speaker.

"ARE YOU KIDDING ME, IZZY?"

I flinch, pulling the phone slightly away from my ear and stand, trying to put some distance between Callahan and what I’m about to do. "Evan⁠—"

"You haven't called me back. You just ignored me. Do you have any idea how that makes me feel?"

I close my eyes, exhaling slowly. Here we go.

"I wasn't ignoring you," I say, keeping my voice even. "I just⁠—"

"You missed your appointment yesterday!" he snaps. "And I had to reschedule it for this morning, but guess what? You didn't pick up your phone for that either!"

I rub my temple, stealing a glance at Callahan.

He's still leaning back against the wall with his arms crossed. His track my reactions, assessing every wince, every shift of discomfort.

I try to act unbothered. I swallow, forcing myself to focus. "Evan, I⁠—"

"I'm coming to your place," he interrupts. "We're going to that appointment. No more excuses."

"I'm... not home right now."

Evan pauses. "Then where are you?"

I grip my phone a little tighter, the plastic case digging into my palm. "At the store. I had to handle some things for work."

Silence.

Then, flatly: "Fine. I'm coming to get you. We'll go to the appointment together. We should be able to make it before they close."

I turn back to look at Callahan. He hasn't moved. But something in his eyes is different. Something dangerous. He’s mad for me, and in a weird way, it gives me the confidence to be mad for me.

I shift my focus back to my phone. "No."

Evan scoffs. "What do you mean, no?"

"I can't," I say, voice stronger this time. "I have things to take care of for work."

"I'm just trying to help you, Izzy."

There it is.

The gaslighting.

The subtle manipulation.

"Why are you being so difficult?" he presses.

I close my eyes. Steady myself. "I have things to take care of for work," I repeat, still watching Callahan.

And then, suddenly, something inside me snaps. I don’t know what causes it. Maybe it’s the way Callahan’s expression hardens with every word Evan says, or the way I feel nauseas at the idea of being around Evan any longer, or the fact that I’ve been defending myself against this man for far too long.

Either way, the words come out before I can stop them.

"And actually, I don't want to go to that appointment."

Silence.

I exhale, my pulse racing.

"Because there's nothing wrong with my weight."

He groans. "I can't talk to you when you're like this."

And then the line goes dead. I stare at my phone, my chest rising and falling fast.

I don't know if I want to laugh or scream.

All I know is that Callahan is still watching me.

And I don't know what the hell he's thinking.

SHE HAS A BOYFRIEND. SHE ALSO HAS MY MOUTH ON HER.

CAL

Izzy's voice is steady at first.

She's trying to keep Evan calm, trying to manage him the way she's probably done a thousand times before.

And I hate it.

I hate the way she immediately shifts into damage control. Like his feelings matter more than her own. Like she has to explain herself for something that shouldn't need an explanation.

And then I hear it.

The gaslighting.

She looks at me.

She looks straight at me even as she tells Evan she can't go to the appointment. She holds my gaze as she repeats it. The chocolate brown of her irises darkens with resolve, her lashes fluttering with each blink.

And then she says it.

That she doesn’t want to go to the appointment.

A fierce satisfaction ignites in my chest. She's not just avoiding it. She's rejecting it. Because there's nothing wrong with her weight. Because there's nothing wrong with her body.

And when Evan scoffs, when he mutters that he “can't talk to her when she's like this” and hangs the phone up on her, I don't think I've ever wanted to hit someone more in my entire life.

She stares at her phone like she's still processing what just happened. Her thumb trembles slightly against the screen.

And I watch her, feeling a complex mixture of emotions rising in my chest.

Pride.

Satisfaction.

But also rage.

A protective fury.

Because the truth is?

She shouldn't have had to say that at all.

I exhale. "Took you long enough to say it."

Izzy blinks, startled by my words.

Her lips part like she's going to argue with me, but then she closes her mouth.

Because she knows I'm right.

She stares at the phone a bit longer, her thumb hovering over the screen like she might change her mind.

But she doesn't.

Instead, she lets out a slow breath and sets it down on the nightstand. The phone clatters against the wood, loud in the quiet apartment.

I watch her, waiting for the inevitable apology.

But for once, she doesn't say it.

Doesn't rush to explain herself.

Doesn't try to soften the blow for Evan.

A primal satisfaction settles low in my gut, something that whispers, Good girl.

I push the thought away, clearing my throat. The sound cuts through the silence.

"That's the first time you've ever stood up to him, isn't it?"

She presses her lips together. "Yeah."

"How's it feel?"

She tilts her head like she's actually thinking about it. Her dark waves fall across her shoulder, catching the amber light from the window.

Then, finally, she looks at me.

"Weird."

"Good weird?"

She sighs, tucking her hair behind her ear. "I don't know. Maybe."

The way her fingers slide through her hair captivates me in a way I should ignore. The delicate movement of her wrist, the slight arch of her neck.

But I don't.

I don't ignore the memory of her robe falling open earlier, revealing the curve of her collarbone.

I don't ignore the memory of her thighs against my shoulders when I lifted her—supple in a way that makes my mouth water. I don't ignore the way she's looking at me now, her expression cautious and uncertain but still magnetic. I lean forward slightly, tilting my head. The mattress creaks under my weight as I shift closer.

And then, before I can stop myself, I say it.

"You like when people take care of you, don't you?"

She blinks, caught off guard. A blush rises in her cheeks, painting them a dusty rose. I reach out, my fingers wrapping around her wrist lightly. I pull her back down onto the bed, but I barely have to try. She all but falls into the spot next to me.

"What?"

"You like it," I say, voice soft but steady, close enough to feel her breath. "When people show up for you. When they tell you you're worth more than you think you are."

She exhales, shifting. The fabric of her sweatpants stretches across her thighs. "I⁠—"

"You don't get that with him," I murmur.

She swallows. Hard. The movement travels down her throat.

Her fingers tighten on the edge of her shirt, knuckles turning white against the burgundy fabric.

I watch her. Wait for her to deny it.

To argue.

But she doesn’t.

She just looks at me, breathing uneven, eyes searching mine. And then, somehow, we’re closer. I don't know who moves first. I don't know if she leans into me or if I lean into her. All I know is that suddenly, her breath fans against my lips, laced with the faint taste of coffee, her body radiating a quiet heat that sinks straight into me.

And then, without thinking—without overanalyzing⁠—

I kiss her.

It's gentle at first.

Just a whisper of a kiss.

Then she leans into it. Her lips are soft, tasting faintly of cherry lip balm, and suddenly, it's not gentle anymore. Her hands grip my shirt, fingers bunching the cotton fabric. Mine slide to her waist, pulling her closer, feeling the curve of her body beneath my palms. She lets out a soft sound, muffled against my mouth, a quiet whimper that vibrates against my lips.

And fuck, I want more.

I deepen the kiss, tilting her back slightly.

Her fingers tangle in my hair, her body melting against mine.

Then suddenly she pulls back fast. Her chest rises and falls, her breath uneven, heaving with each rapid breath.

"Oh God, I'm so sorry," she says, rushing to stand up.

"Don't," I say, barely above a whisper, trying to process the fact that she’s not in my arms anymore.

She shakes her head. "No, this is—this is so inappropriate. I have a boyfriend. At least I think I do. And I—I'm just taking advantage of how nice you're being to me. I'm vulnerable and—shit."

She starts apologizing again.

Rushing through the words, not looking at me. Her cheeks are flushed, her lips slightly swollen from our kiss.

Then, before I can stop her—she bolts.

She grabs her keys, the metal jingling in her hand, and runs out of my apartment, leaving her thermos on the counter.

I watch from the window as she gets into her car. I watch as she tries and fails to pull out of her parallel spot three separate times. Each attempt accompanied by the screech of tires against pavement. I watch her finally drive off. Her taillights receding into the tangle of traffic.

And then I pull up my phone, tracking her GPS.

She goes straight home.

And I sit there, leaning back, pressing my fingers to my lips, thinking about that fucking kiss. The taste of her still lingers.

Thinking about the way she leaned into it before she ran.

And knowing that, next time?

She might not run at all.