Текст книги "Love me stalk me"

Автор книги: Laura Bishop

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NOT MY BUSINESS. I MAKE IT MY BUSINESS.

CALLAHAN KNIGHT

The woman in the black dress doesn't belong here.

Not in the way the rest of the crowd does. Not in the way her boyfriend—if the narcissistic, distracted man sitting across from her even qualifies as that—fits into this overpriced steakhouse like he was born in a tailored suit and a boardroom. No, she's a contradiction to everything around her. A genuine presence. A rare authenticity that doesn't match the polished, soulless gleam of our setting.

I clock her discomfort the second I see her. The way her lips press together every time the man across from her says something, like she's biting back the urge to argue. I can’t figure out why I watch her. Maybe because it's something to do while I wait. Maybe because I've always had a habit of seeing what lies beneath the surface.

Or maybe because for the first time in a long time, I see a woman I don't want to look away from. She's beautiful in a way that isn't obvious at first. Not the sort of beauty that knocks you sideways the second you see her, but the kind that unfolds the longer you look—the kind that sinks under your skin and takes root.

Thick, dark hair, slightly messy, like she ran her fingers through it too many times on the way here. Big, brown eyes, expressive even as she tries to keep them guarded. A full pout, and even though her lips are pursed tight, something tells me when she smiles, it transforms her entire face.

She's curvy, soft in all the right places, but I can tell she doesn't think so. Can tell by the way she pulls at the fabric of her dress where it hugs her hips. She shrinks herself without realizing it. But she shouldn't. Because from where I'm sitting? She's impossible to ignore.

I take a slow sip of my whiskey, letting the burn roll over my tongue as she lifts her glass, tilting it toward her mouth just enough to catch the red of her lipstick against the rim. The ice clinks softly against the crystal. She hesitates before drinking, just for a second. Like she's somewhere else in her head. Somewhere far from here.

It's not my business. I have no reason to care about whatever the hell is happening at her table. But when the guy across from her shows her something on his phone and I see her recoil, the way her shoulders go tight, the way she grips her napkin like she's fighting the urge to throw it, a cold anger settles deep in my gut.

I know that look.

I've seen it before.

Not in a restaurant like this with its polished wood and low lighting, but in places where people aren't supposed to show emotion. Places where you're trained to keep your face blank no matter how bad it gets. I recognize what she's doing, what's happening behind her eyes. She's swallowing it down. Taking the hit.

I wonder how many she's taken before this one.

She stands when he does, moving a little slower, like she's bracing herself for whatever comes next. He doesn't wait for her, his attention shifting the second the check is paid. She follows him toward the elevator, her arms folded across her stomach, like she’s trying to hide.

I watch as they step inside, the sleek metal doors sliding shut behind them. He's still scrolling, barely acknowledging her. She glances up at him once, her lips parting like she might say something—then she doesn't.

Instead, she looks back.

And just before the doors close, her eyes meet mine through the narrowing gap.

She hesitates.

Then she's gone.

I exhale slowly, flexing my fingers against the cool weight of my glass. The ice shifts, melting against the heat of my palm.

Time passes after the elevator doors close until the reason I’m here finally appears. I shift my attention as a man in his mid-fifties approaches the bar. He's in a navy suit, the kind that costs as much as my last security setup, his hair perfectly combed back in that executive but approachable way corporate guys love. Expensive cologne announces his arrival before he does.

"Callahan."

I stand, shaking his hand. "Mr. Reyes."

"Call me Tom," he says, settling into the seat across from me. "Glad we could get you out before you officially start tomorrow. Welcome aboard."

I nod, waiting as he waves down the bartender, orders himself a scotch, and leans back with the comfortable ease of someone who thinks he's the most important person in the room. "Hell of a time for you to join us," he says, shaking his head. "Thefts are up, staff is stretched thin, and corporate expects miracles on a budget. Hope you like a challenge."

"I don't mind a challenge."

His mouth tips in approval. "That's what we're hoping for. The last guy couldn't handle it. The store's too high-profile—too many VIP clients, too many people looking for a quick payout. These aren't teenagers stealing lip gloss. It's organized, and we need someone who knows how to handle that."

I've dealt with worse. I don't say that, but it's the truth.

He takes a sip of his drink before gesturing toward the dining area. "Crossed paths with your new store manager on my way up. Isabella Russo. She's young, but smart. Corporate's got high hopes for her."

Isabella.

I roll the name over in my head, testing it against what I already know about her, which isn't much. Just that she doesn't like the food here. That she picked at her napkin all night. That she spent her whole dinner barely speaking while the guy she was with ignored her.

I down the rest of my whiskey, the liquor burning a warm path down my throat. "I'll meet her tomorrow."

Tom nods. "Good. You two will be working closely. Just make sure she doesn't make your job harder—these store managers can get a little... particular."

I don't answer, because I already know how this goes. Guys like Tom always think they know everything about a situation. They don't.

I sit through the rest of dinner, listening to his rundown of the job, the security concerns, the real reason they wanted to bring in someone with my background. I tell him what he wants to hear, shake his hand when we part ways, and head home.

My apartment is nothing special. One-bedroom, nothing on the walls, a place to sleep and nothing more. I never saw the point of making a place feel like home when I don't even know if I'll still be here in a year.

It's a habit I never managed to break after getting out. The military has a way of drilling the impermanence of things into you—constant movement, temporary deployments, never staying in one place long enough to let it settle under your skin. I spent almost a decade living out of duffel bags, sleeping in barracks, tents, and sometimes, wherever the hell I could find cover.

You learn to live without attachments.

Or at least, you tell yourself that.

I toe off my boots, drop my keys onto the counter with a metallic clatter, and sit in front of my laptop. The distant sounds of city traffic filter through my windows, a constant urban lullaby I've learned to tune out.

I tell myself I'm just getting a head start. That it's normal to research the people I'm going to be working with. It's smart.

But as I type her name into the search bar, I already know that's bullshit.

Her LinkedIn pops up first—typical corporate headshot, a clean, professional summary. Store manager at an upscale department store, promoted quickly, strong track record.

Her Instagram is next. It's mostly safe, mostly work-related. Fashion, product launches, staff events. But the further back I scroll, the more personal it gets. A photo of her at a rooftop bar, laughing, her head tilted back. A post from three years ago of her and her family—three brothers, parents who look straight out of an old Italian movie.

I don't know what that kind of family feels like.

The only person left in mine is my dad, and even that feels like more of a technicality these days.

He's back in Pennsylvania, still in the same house I grew up in. We talk, but not as often as we should. I haven't seen him in almost a year. Meant to visit a few months back, but I kept putting it off. Told myself work got in the way, but the truth is, I'm not great at showing up. Never have been.

I should call him.

The thought lingers in the back of my mind as I keep scrolling.

Eventually, I find what I'm really looking for.

Evan.

I don't have to dig hard. He's one of those guys who makes himself easy to find—public profile, polished photos, all surface-level confidence. He appears to work in finance, the kind of man you'd expect to see at that restaurant, all clean lines and expensive habits. Every picture is the same—him in expensive suits, gym selfies that show off his gains, expensive dinners where he's tagged the restaurant like it's part of his personal brand.

I skim the captions, the comments. The ones where his friends hype him up, where women leave the sort of emojis that tell me everything I need to know about him.

Then I go back to her profile.

I scroll through the last year of posts. No pictures of Evan. No tagged dinners, no anniversary shoutouts. If I hadn't just watched them leave together, I'd assume she was single.

That tells me a story.

So does the fact that I'm sitting here, doing this at all.

I close my laptop, scrub a hand over my jaw, feeling the rough stubble there, and sit back in my chair, listening to the hum of the refrigerator and the muted sounds of my neighbor's television through the wall.

This isn't like me. I don't get caught up in complications like this.

I don't care about people's personal lives, about what they do when they leave work, about the way a woman I don't even know looked at a man like she was waiting for him to see her and already knew he wouldn't.

At least, I tell myself I don't.

It's a lie, though, isn't it? Because I know exactly what that look feels like.

I saw it in the mirror once.

I wasn't supposed to care back then, either. It wasn't the job of a soldier to carry anything other than what was necessary, and that included emotions. You pack light. You don't make promises you can't keep, don't let yourself get too comfortable, don't expect anything to be waiting for you when you get home.

I broke that rule.

I was deployed when I got the email. It was short, clinical. No explanations, no real apology. Just a fact. She'd moved on. She was getting married.

And the real kicker? By the time my boots hit U.S. soil again, she wasn't just married. She was pregnant.

With triplets.

Which meant they weren't just an item after we broke up. They were together while she was still telling me she loved me. While we were engaged.

I should have seen it coming. She used to get frustrated with how often I was gone, how little I could give her beyond phone calls and letters. She wanted stability, someone who could be there for her in a way I couldn't be. I used to tell myself that was fair. That I couldn't blame her for choosing someone else.

But that didn't stop the betrayal from sitting in my chest like a bullet that never got removed.

After that, I learned my lesson.

You don't put faith in something that can be taken away from you while you're halfway across the world. You don't put faith in people.

That's why this—this fixation brewing in my head over a woman I haven't even met—isn't right.

I don't know Isabella Russo.

She has nothing to do with me.

So why the hell can't I stop thinking about her?

I exhale sharply, rubbing a hand down my face. I need sleep. I need to call my dad. I need to stop thinking about a woman who isn't mine to think about.

But instead, I sit in the quiet of my apartment, the ticking of the clock on my wall marking time, wondering if she's staring at the ceiling the way I am.

Wondering if, right now, she's lying awake thinking about me the same way I'm thinking about her.

IF SHE FALLS, I’M THE GROUND

CAL

Monarch is bigger than I expected.

I knew it was high-end, knew the clientele would be the kind that doesn't look at price tags before handing over a black card, but still—this place is a fortress wrapped in designer packaging. Glass cases filled with jewelry worth more than my ride, handbags displayed like museum pieces, clothing racks curated like a gallery exhibit. Too much money, too many moving parts, and not nearly enough security.

Which is why I'm here.

I arrive early, dressed in black tactical pants and a fitted button-down, professional but functional. I take my time walking the floor before the store opens, watching employees set up displays, tracking the cameras, mapping out entry and exit points in my head. The steady airflow from the vents moves through the space, mingling with the quiet click of hangers and the soft padding of feet on polished floors. People notice me. A few nod in acknowledgment; others glance, then keep moving.

I don't care. I'm not here to make friends.

I check in with the security team first, go over their current protocols, assess the weak spots. Some of them have been here for years, others only a few months. Most of them are used to handling the standard stuff—shoplifters, a drunk VIP here and there, the occasional handbag disappearing during a private shopping appointment. What they aren't prepared for is organized retail crime, professional-level theft, or someone who knows exactly how to manipulate the blind spots in their system.

And from what I saw in the initial reports, that's exactly what's happening.

I'm scanning through a list of incidents when a voice pulls my attention.

"Callahan," Tom Reyes, my corporate contact from last night, claps a hand on my shoulder. "Come meet your store manager."

I already know who she is.

I knew before I stepped into this store, before my name was even on payroll.

Still, when I turn, when I finally see her up close in the daylight, it does something to me.

She’s different this morning. More composed. A fitted blazer skims her curves—flattering, not flaunting. Sleek heels echo across the marble with each step, her hair styled in loose waves that feel intentional, not accidental. A tablet rests under one arm while her free hand scrolls through schedules with practiced ease. Confidence clings to her now, a far cry from the woman I saw last night—small and silent beneath her boyfriend’s scrutiny. Here, in her world, she doesn’t shrink. She owns the room.

I wonder if she even recognizes me.

She doesn't react—not outright. But when she looks up and our eyes meet, I have my answer. A pause before she resets, that smooth professionalism sliding into place.

"Callahan, this is Isabella Russo, our store manager," Reyes says.

She offers a polite, businesslike smile. "Nice to meet you."

I shake her hand. It's warm. Steady.

"You too."

Her lips press into a tight line that isn't quite a smile but isn't dismissive either. Professional. Distant. She nods toward Reyes. "Tom mentioned you'd be coming in today. Have you had a chance to review the security system yet?"

I shake my head. "Not yet. Wanted to get a look at the store first."

She nods, tucking the tablet under her arm. "Good. I know corporate already gave you the rundown, but I'll be blunt—we're understaffed in loss prevention. We're dealing with high-end clients, high-risk merchandise, and corporate expectations that don't always align with reality. I need to know if I can rely on you."

I don't blink. "You can."

She studies me.

Reyes clears his throat, filling the silence. "Callahan's got extensive experience. Military background, worked high-profile private security after that. He'll get the security issues locked down."

She flicks her gaze back to me. "Army?"

I nod. "Ten years."

She nods, accepting the answer without prying. But then, after a brief pause, she tilts her head slightly. "I heard you also have a background in cybersecurity."

I watch her, debating how much to say. "That's right."

"How deep does that go?" she asks, crossing her arms, curiosity slipping into her tone. "We're dealing with more than just grab-and-run theft. High-end fraud, internal shrink, even digital scams—clients trying to do chargebacks on merchandise they actually walked out with. I need to know if you're the kind of security that can handle just physical threats, or if you can see the ones happening behind the scenes, too."

She's smart. Smarter than Reyes gives her credit for.

"I see all threats," I say simply.

Her lips twitch, like she doesn't know if she believes me. "All threats?"

I nod. "If there's a way in, I can find it. If there's a blind spot, I'll patch it. And if someone thinks they can outsmart the system, they won't get far."

She studies me, like she's trying to decide if I'm just saying what she wants to hear.

"Every store I've worked for," I add, "had their numbers flipped in the first three months. You've got thieves walking through your front doors who don't even realize I already know who they are."

Her fingers tap lightly against her tablet. "No one's ever that good."

My lips twitch with quiet amusement. "No thief I've ever tracked has gotten away. If they were smart enough to, I wouldn't have known they were stealing at all."

She huffs a short breath, a mix of amusement or maybe grudging respect, then nods. "We'll see."

It's not a challenge exactly, but it's close.

I like that.

"Your schedule will mirror mine for the first few weeks," she continues. "That means early mornings, late nights, weekends. You good with that?"

"I'm used to worse."

"Good," she says again, and there's a directness about the way she says it, the efficiency of it, that I like. She doesn't waste words. Doesn't ask questions she doesn't need the answer to.

We go over the rest of the logistics. The existing security protocols, how loss prevention handles incidents, where the biggest issues have been. She's direct, focused, and I can already tell she's used to managing people who don't listen to her.

I do.

I answer her questions, keep my responses short, watch the way she absorbs each detail, already running through solutions in her head.

She doesn't mention last night.

Doesn't acknowledge the way our eyes met across the restaurant, or the way she hesitated before stepping into that elevator.

Maybe she doesn't remember.

But then, right before Reyes wraps up our conversation, she glances at me again.

Just a second too long.

Just enough for me to see it—the shift in her breath.

She does remember.

She's just pretending she doesn't.

I don't know if I like that or not.

The day moves fast, a blur of meetings, system checks, and introductions that I barely register beyond what I need to know. I shake hands, nod at people I probably won't remember by the end of the shift, listen to a rundown of security policies that are incomplete at best and outright useless at worst. I spend most of the morning doing what I do best—watching.

I watch the staff, learning their patterns, their strengths, their weaknesses. There are seasoned employees who know the clientele, their voices smooth and persuasive as they close a sale. There are newer hires, eager but a little overwhelmed. And then there's her.

Isabella is everywhere.

I catch glimpses of her throughout the day, moving from department to department, switching between firm and charming depending on what the situation calls for. One minute, she's talking a new hire through a luxury sale, making sure they upsell without pushing too hard. The next, she's handling an upset vendor over the phone, smoothing out some last-minute delay.

She moves like she's the one keeping this place from collapsing. And maybe she is.

What surprises me most isn't her efficiency—I expected that. It's the way people respect her. The way employees lower their voices when she's talking, the way they listen. I've worked in plenty of places where managers act like dictators or get completely walked over. Isabella doesn't do either. She's got a grip on every element of this place, and she knows it.

What I don't know is if anyone else notices just how much she does.

If anyone actually sees her.

If that douchebag boyfriend of hers does.

The thought irritates me more than it should, but I push it aside, focus on the job.

I sit in the surveillance room, watching the monitors cycle through different angles of the store, my fingers drumming idly against the desk. Most of the day has been uneventful. A few minor shoplifting attempts, no organized efforts, no professional techniques.

My focus returns to her.

She's in the personal shopping suite, standing near one of the wingback armchairs that look like they belong in a cigar lounge more than a department store. Across from her, a man in his forties is perched comfortably, a tailored navy suit doing nothing to hide his sleaze. The way he leans back, swirling his drink lazily. He’s the human embodiment of trust fund divorce settlement and a Rolex he didn’t earn. I know everything about him before he even opens hs mouth.

A repeat customer. Someone used to getting what he wants.

I switch to the camera with better audio, adjusting the volume just enough to pick up the conversation.

"I actually asked for the store manager," he continues, voice slow and easy, like he has all the time in the world. "That's you, right?"

Isabella doesn't hesitate, doesn't frown or shift like she's thrown off. She just nods, keeping her expression neutral. "Yes, but my associate, Daniel, is our expert on this collection. He works directly with the designers and⁠—"

"I'd prefer to work with you," the man cuts in, a smirk twisting his features like this is some private joke between them. "If you don't mind."

She does, I can tell.

Not that she shows it outright, but I catch the way her fingers tighten just slightly against the tablet in her hands before she exhales a quiet, controlled breath.

"I'd be happy to assist," she says evenly, shooting Daniel a brief glance before turning her full attention back to the client. "What kind of fit are you looking for?"

I know what she's doing. Redirecting. Trying to get the conversation back on track. But I also know exactly the sort of guy this is, and I know he's enjoying himself.

Daniel, the associate she was trying to pass him off to, stands a few feet away, clearly uncertain. He glances at Isabella once, like he's waiting for her to signal him to step in, but she doesn't.

Because she knows she can't.

Not without making it worse.

The client hums, finally looking at the suits like he actually gives a damn about them. "A cut that's classic, but not boring. I have an event coming up, and I need to look good. Not that I ever don't."

Isabella smiles just enough to be polite. "Of course."

I grind my teeth.

He's toying with her.

She knows it. I know it.

And neither of us can do a damn thing about it.

"This is a beautiful collection," Isabella says smoothly, gesturing to the designer suits draped over the armrest. "We just got the new season in last week. You'll be one of the first to experience it."

"Hmm," the man hums, his attention now turning fully to her. Too much attention.

Isabella doesn't fidget, doesn't retreat. She holds her position, shoulders squared, expression neutral. She's been here before.

"I have to say," the man continues, his voice casual, like they're old friends sharing an inside joke, "the customer service in this store is exceptional."

"I'm glad to hear that," she replies, still professional, but she’s got a tell. She adjusts the sleeves of her blazer, looking down.

"I mean it," the man insists, setting down his drink on the marble side table. "I always feel... taken care of here."

There it is. The shift.

I see it in the way his posture shifts—the subtle lean forward, the way his eyes skim her face and briefly dip before meeting hers again. He’s gauging her reaction, testing what she’ll allow.

She doesn't give him an inch.

"Customer satisfaction is a top priority for us," she says, keeping her voice even.

"That's good to hear. I always appreciate feeling satisfied."

It's subtle. Just a little too familiar, a little too comfortable.

And it's enough to make my grip tighten against the armrest of my chair.

Isabella shifts slightly, reaching for a nearby tablet, effectively putting a barrier between them. "Would you like me to have these tailored for you? I believe we have your measurements on file.”

The man watches her for a beat longer than necessary. “Such excellent customer service, as always. It’s why I ask for you specifically.”

He stands, reaching into his pocket for a black card, handing it over with the same lazy, confident ease as every man who's ever assumed he's untouchable.

She takes it, nodding once. "I'll have the transaction processed right away."

He holds onto it a second longer than he should before finally letting go.

I don't like it.

Not just him, but the entire unspoken exchange.

I don't like the way Isabella had to sidestep instead of shut him down. I don't like the way she had to be careful when he had the freedom to do whatever the hell he wanted.

And I really don't like the way I know this isn't the first time she's had to deal with it.

The transaction wraps up quickly after that. She hands him the receipt, thanks him for his business, and waits for him to leave before exhaling a slow, measured breath. Not frustrated. Not rattled. Just tired.

I flip through the other cameras, tracking the man's exit. He walks out like he owns the place, adjusts his cuffs, slides into the back of a black car waiting at the curb.

I make a note of his license plate.

Just in case.

I lean back, flexing my fingers, trying to shake the tension from my hands. This isn't my business.

But I don't like that it's hers. And I like even less that I know she'll probably be dealing with men like him tomorrow.

And the day after that.

And the day after that.

I shut off the feed, push back from the desk, and head to check on her.