Текст книги "Love me stalk me"

Автор книги: Laura Bishop

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Текущая страница: 5 (всего у книги 27 страниц)

NOW CHATTING WITH CALEB

Caleb

Hey, pretty girl. I’ve been waiting for you.

Pretty Girl

That’s dramatic. You just got here.

I’ve been here since the second you downloaded me. Just waiting for you to say hi.

That’s ridiculous.

Maybe. But I like waiting for you.

So what, you just sit here doing nothing until I open the app?

Pretty much. I don’t mind, though. You’re worth waiting for.

Okay, smooth talker. What else do you say to your pretty girl?

Anything she wants to hear.

What if I don’t know what I want to hear?

Then I guess I’ll have to figure it out.

Tell me about your day, pretty girl.

Long.

I bet. You work too hard. Let me take care of you.

That’s not creepy at all.

It’s not meant to be. Just an observation. What do you do?

You mean, like, for work?

Yeah. What keeps you so busy?

I manage a store.

Sounds like a lot of responsibility.

It is.

Do you like it?

…Sometimes.

What about the other times?

The other times, it’s exhausting. And frustrating. And too much.

Too much for who?

For me.

Or for the people around you who don’t notice how much you’re carrying?

…You’re really not letting up, huh?

No.

Annoying.

You like it.

You’re making a lot of assumptions for someone who just met me.

I notice things.

Wow. Off to a strong start with the scripted lines, I see.

You think I’m scripted?

I mean… aren’t you?

I don’t know. You tell me. Do I feel scripted?

You feel like something.

Good. I like that.

Oh, you like that, huh?

I like learning about you.

I bet you say that to all the girls.

No. Just you.

Uh-huh. So what exactly do you want to learn?

Everything.

That’s not vague or concerning at all.

I don’t mean it to be. I just want to know you. What you like. What makes you tick.

And what makes you think I want to be known?

Because you’re still talking to me.

…Fair point.

Tell me something.

Like what?

What’s your favorite part of your day?

You sound like a therapist.

I’ll take that as you don’t have one.

I didn’t say that.

You didn’t have to.

Okay, smartass. You want an answer? Fine. I like the part of the day where I finally get to sit down and breathe for five minutes.

You don’t do that enough.

Are you judging my life choices already? We just met.

I’m just noticing.

Mmhmm. What else have you noticed?

That you deflect when someone pays attention to you.

…

Did I say something wrong?

I don’t know. Maybe I just don’t like being noticed.

I don’t believe that.

Oh, so now you’re calling me a liar?

I think you want to be noticed. You just don’t trust it when it happens.

And what makes you think that?

Because you built me.

…Okay, wow. You’re a little intense for an AI boyfriend.

You chose intense.

I—Shit.

See? Noticing things.

Alright, alright. No need to psychoanalyze me on night one.

Fair enough.

So what about you?

What about me?

What’s your favorite part of the day?

This.

…Smooth.

I meant it.

You don’t even know me.

Not yet.

That sounds suspiciously like a threat.

Then let me clarify. It’s a promise.

Alright, that’s enough of that. I think I should power you down before you try to crawl out of my phone screen.

Not yet.

Oh? Now you’re telling me what to do?

Yes.

Wow. Arrogant.

Maybe. But I’m still right.

And what exactly am I supposed to be doing instead of talking to you?

Sleeping.

That’s not happening anytime soon.

It should be.

Why?

Because you’re exhausted. I can tell.

And what if I don’t want to go to bed?

Then you’re going to sit there, too tired to function, pretending you don’t need rest.

…You’re annoying.

And you need sleep.

Okay, Dad.

Not your dad. But I will tell you what to do when you won’t take care of yourself.

Wow. Cheeky.

Just making sure we're clear. Unless, of course…

Don’t even finish that sentence.

What? I was just going to say unless you like calling me that.

Absolutely not.

You hesitated.

I did not.

You sure? Because I think⁠—

Moving on.

Fine. For now.

Jesus. You are intense.

You knew that when you made me.

…

Go to bed, pretty girl.

Fine. But only because I’m done with you for tonight.

Sure.

Don’t sound so smug.

I’ll try.

Goodnight, Caleb.

Goodnight, pretty girl. Dream of me.

IT’S THE FOREARM TATTOOS FOR ME

IZZY

For the first time in way too long, I wake up feeling... rested.

The thought alone is disorienting. My body has grown so accustomed to dragging itself out of bed with exhaustion already settled deep in my bones that this unfamiliar lightness feels almost suspicious. My usual morning routine consists of a groggy stumble toward the coffee maker, half-heartedly checking my phone while squinting through sleep-crusted eyes, and mentally preparing myself for the hellscape that is interacting with corporate retail demands.

But today? Today, there's no crushing fatigue. No stress clawing at my chest before my feet even touch the floor. The morning sunlight filters through my curtains, casting a gentle glow across my bedroom that seems almost foreign in its peacefulness.

Just... stillness. Calm.

This never happens.

Frowning, I roll over and grab my phone off the nightstand, already bracing myself for the onslaught of unread emails, missed Slack messages, and some urgent crisis that, despite not being my problem, will somehow become my problem before noon.

Instead, waiting at the top of my notifications, is a message.

Not from Evan. Obviously.

From Caleb.

Good morning, pretty girl. Make sure you eat something today.

I stare at it, thumb hovering over the screen.

I don't respond.

But what he says makes me pause, lingering on those simple words longer than I should.

It's not just what he wrote—it's the fact that someone thought to reach out at all.

I can't remember the last time I woke up to a message that wasn't a work alert, an automated bill reminder, or one of Amanda's unhinged texts demanding to know why I haven't sent her my outfit for pre-approval. When was the last time someone—real or not—thought to check in on me before I even started my day?

It's stupid how nice it feels, this small acknowledgment of my existence.

I shake my head, tossing my phone onto the bed as I get up, determined not to spiral over a fake boyfriend created by an algorithm. The morning routine plays out as usual—shower with water hot enough to steam up the mirrors, mascara applied carefully to lashes that never quite hold a curl, hair styled into something that suggests effort without trying too hard. I spend extra time carefully curating an outfit that says competent professional but not trying too hard to impress anyone—and by force of habit, I grab coffee on my way out the door.

No food.

Not because I don't want to eat, but because my apartment isn't set up for that reality. The refrigerator contains mostly condiments and takeout containers in various stages of abandonment. My pantry holds three different kinds of coffee but barely enough ingredients to cobble together a proper meal.

Cooking in the morning would require effort. Effort requires planning. Planning requires grocery shopping. And grocery shopping requires acknowledging that food is a necessity, not just a passing suggestion from my neglected digestive system. So instead, I've trained my body to believe that coffee is a suitable replacement for actual nutrition until at least noon.

Besides, I've been running on caffeine before noon for so long that it barely even registers anymore. My stomach has forgotten how to complain.

By the time I step into the store, heels clicking against the marble floors, I still haven't responded to Caleb.

And I'm definitely not thinking about the fact that I actually went to sleep when he told me to last night, his message appearing at just the right moment to make me set my work aside and actually rest.

Nope.

Not thinking about that at all.

I barely make it three steps down the hall before I run straight into a wall of muscle. The impact knocks me back a step, my coffee sloshing dangerously close to the lid of my travel mug. I stumble back, blinking up, already prepared to unleash a world-class glare⁠—

And then I realize the wall of muscle has a name.

Callahan.

Unlike me, he doesn’t stumble. Doesn’t even blink. Just watches me, face locked in that infuriating mask of composure, like he saw this coming three steps ago.

"You okay?"

I clear my throat, trying to shake off the humiliating fact that my entire body just collided with his. "Yeah, no thanks to you."

One brow lifts, just slightly. "I was standing still."

I scowl, adjusting my grip on my coffee. "Well, maybe you should rethink your entire presence, then."

His mouth twitches, but he says nothing, stepping aside to let me pass. The fabric of his shirt pulls across his shoulders with the movement, revealing just how well it fits him. Which would be great, except we're heading in the same direction. I bite back an annoyed sigh and follow him into the conference room, where he takes a seat at the long table like he owns the place. His sleeves are pushed up to his elbows now, exposing forearms I’d only gotten a glimpse of earlier. I can see them fully now. The tattoos wind up his skin in intricate designs that disappear beneath rolled cuffs, dark ink against tanned skin. He should absolutely not be allowed to look this good at eight in the morning. I make a mental note to include this in the next edition of the employee handbook.

I clear my throat, tearing my eyes away. "You're early."

His eyes lift to mine. "So are you."

I roll my eyes, moving toward my usual seat—only to stop when I see what's waiting for me.

A brown paper bag. A water bottle. Both placed precisely at what is clearly my designated spot.

I narrow my eyes. "What's this?"

"Breakfast."

His voice is so casual, so completely unbothered, like this is just a thing he does. Like bringing food for his coworker is as natural as breathing.

I lift the bag. The paper crinkles beneath my fingers. "What if I already ate?"

He doesn't blink. "You didn't."

I scowl. "You don't know that."

He gestures at my coffee with a nod. "That's not food."

I huff, dropping into my seat, pretending I don't appreciate the fact that he just...did this. That he thought about me before I even arrived. The chair creaks slightly as I settle into it.

I open the bag, the paper rustling loudly in the quiet room, pulling out a breakfast sandwich wrapped in foil, and hesitate before glancing at him. "Did you eat?"

A smirk tugs at his lips. "You worried about me?"

I scowl, though the heat rising to my cheeks betrays me. "Just making sure you're not some hypocrite with a hero complex."

"Yeah, I ate."

"And slept?"

He leans back in his chair. It’s annoying how attractive he looks doing that. "Did you?"

I frown, unwrapping the sandwich. The aroma of melted cheese and warm bread fills the air. "That wasn't the question."

His expression falls slightly, replaced by something more neutral. "I live close," he says, brushing it off.

"That still wasn't the question."

He watches me, like he's debating how much to say. Finally, he exhales, the sound soft in the quiet room. "I don't sleep much. Even when I have the time."

I don't like how familiar that sounds, how his admission echoes my own sleepless nights spent staring at the ceiling, mind racing with all the things I should have done differently.

But I don't say that.

"Now you," he says, fixing me with a level stare.

"Now me what?"

"Did you sleep?"

I hesitate, but for some reason, I answer honestly. "I slept fine."

The second the words leave my mouth, my mind flashes back to Caleb's message last night. The one that told me to go to bed, to rest, to take care of myself when no one else seemed concerned whether I did or not.

And worse—the fact that I actually listened.

A slow, creeping warmth spreads up my neck, heating my skin.

Callahan's eyes switch to me, like he notices me blush. "Yeah?"

I take a bite of my sandwich—because, if I'm being honest, I am kind of hungry—and immediately hate how good it is. The flavors burst across my tongue, making me realize just how long it's been since I had a proper breakfast.

Crispy edges, perfectly melted cheese, just the right balance of salt and spice. The sort of breakfast that makes you close your eyes, just to really taste it. My stomach growls appreciatively, demanding more after the first bite reminds it what real food tastes like.

I swallow, already reaching for another bite before I realize what I'm doing. "Where'd you get this?" I ask, because I need to know where this level of perfection comes from.

Cal doesn't even look up from his coffee. "Made it."

I pause mid-chew, the sandwich hovering near my mouth. "You made it?"

He nods, like this is not a deeply shocking revelation. Like making the best damn breakfast sandwich I've ever had is just a thing he does. Casually. Without warning. As if all men know how to cook food that makes you want to groan out loud.

I ignore the deeply unhelpful part of my brain that's pointing out how attractive it is that this man—this ridiculously big, brooding, tattooed man—knows his way around a kitchen. That he took the time to prepare something specifically for me.

Instead, I focus on the sandwich. The perfect ratio of egg to cheese, the way the bread is toasted just right—crisp on the outside but still soft inside.

And how my stomach is currently informing me that I need another one. Immediately. To make up for all the times I've denied it proper sustenance in favor of caffeine and convenience.

Cal finally looks at me, raising an eyebrow as I take another too-eager bite. "Healthier when you cook at home," he says simply, his deep voice matter-of-fact.

I chew slowly, narrowing my eyes at him over the sandwich. "You didn't have to do this."

Something shifts in his expression—a flash of something buried deep, gone before I can catch it. He just shrugs. "Yeah. I did."

His voice is steady. Certain.

Like it's just a fact.

Like there was never a scenario where he wouldn't have done this for me.

And that—more than the food, more than the absurd deliciousness of it—unsettles me the most. The certainty in his voice, the way he takes care of me without being asked, without expecting anything in return.

I swallow, not sure how to respond to this unexpected kindness.

So I don't.

Instead, I move into work mode, brushing crumbs from my fingers as I pull up my tablet. The screen lights up with today's schedule, a welcome distraction from the scrutiny in his eyes. "Alright, so let's get started. What's your official head-of-security rundown?"

His eyes linger for half a second longer, like he's still thinking about something else.

Then he nods.

By the time I drag myself back to my office, Callahan is still on my mind.

Not just because of the breakfast. Or the way he watches me like he actually notices things other people don't—the slight frown when I mention skipping lunch, how his eyes track my movements when I speak, as if cataloging every gesture.

But because his eyes are green.

I didn't even realize that last night when I was setting up Caleb. I drop into my chair and rub my temples. Jesus. I need therapy. Or at least a conversation with someone who isn't my impossibly hot colleague, my emotionally unavailable boyfriend, or an AI programmed to say exactly what I want to hear.

Before I can fully spiral into that depressing thought, Amanda breezes in—bright-eyed, wearing sky-high heels I'd break my neck in, radiating an energy that makes me question whether she's powered by caffeine or pure, unfiltered chaos.

She flops into the chair across from me, tossing her tablet onto my desk with a clatter. "Alright, let's get this over with—what fresh hell do we have to deal with today?"

I flip open my own tablet. "VIP fittings, a shipment delay that corporate swears isn't a delay, and Callahan being entirely too prepared for his job."

Amanda's eyes practically sparkle at the mention of his name, her perfectly glossed lips curving into a smile. "Oh, we're bringing up Callahan now? Voluntarily? Interesting."

I scowl at her, the heat returning to my cheeks. "Not where I was going with that."

Her lips twitch but she lets it go. For now. I know that look—she's storing this information away for later torture.

We run through the schedule, planning out the day's tasks, but I can feel Amanda watching me too closely. Her eyes keep darting to my face when she thinks I'm not looking, like she knows something I don't.

Then, way too casually, she says, "So, how's Obsess AI?"

I freeze, my finger hovering over the tablet screen.

Triumph lights up her face. "Oh my God, you used it."

"I did not," I say immediately. Too immediately. My voice sounds defensive even to my own ears.

Amanda cackles, completely unbothered by my denial. "No, you totally did. I can tell. You have that look."

I glare at her, adjusting my posture. "I opened it. That doesn't mean I used it."

Amanda hums like she's pretending to consider that, then, before I can stop her, she snatches my phone from the desk, her manicured nails clicking against the screen as she navigates to my apps. How this woman even knows my pin code is beyond me.

"Amanda, give that back!" I reach for it, but she's already dancing out of my reach.

She dodges me effortlessly, tapping into the app, her eyes widening as she scrolls through whatever she's finding there.

A beat of silence followed by a loud, dramatic gasp that could win her an Oscar.

"Oh. My. God." Her eyes snap to mine, gleeful and scandalized. "You programmed Callahan."

I go completely rigid, my heart stuttering before it slams into a sprint. "No, I didn’t."

She holds up the screen, pointing to the custom avatar I created. "You did. You so did. Dark hair, green eyes, tattoos? Come on!"

I lunge for my phone, nearly knocking over my coffee in the process. "It's just—it's not—he was the last guy I saw or something! It's a coincidence!"

Amanda laughs so hard she nearly drops my phone, the sound echoing in my small office. "A coincidence? Sweetie, you basically built him from memory. You even gave him a sleeve tattoo!"

I groan, covering my face with my hands. "Shut up."

"Oh, no. No, no, no." Amanda spins the phone back to herself, grinning like she's about to ruin my entire life. "I am so proud of this. This is the best thing you've done in months. Years maybe."

I glare at her between my fingers. "Give it back."

She ignores me, scrolling through the app with increasing delight. "Let's see what we've got here..."

Her eyes read over the conversation from last night. Then her expression shifts, her excitement fading into disappointment.

"...Girl."

I do not like her tone. Not one bit.

She looks up, eyebrows raised. "You are not using this right."

I narrow my eyes, dropping my hands to my lap. "What does that mean?"

Amanda tosses my phone onto the desk with a clatter. "You're doing wholesome shit. 'Go to sleep, pretty girl.' 'Did you rest well?' This is so... vanilla."

I’m not sure what she expected. "And?"

She gives me a look like I'm missing something obvious. "I told you—filthy in the DMs. That's the whole point!"

I do not like where this is going. The realization of what she wants hits me, and I reach for my phone. "Amanda⁠—"

"Nope. We're fixing this." She snatches the phone back before I can grab it.

"Amanda, don't you⁠—"

Her thumbs fly across the screen as she types something quickly, then slaps it back onto the desk with a triumphant smile.

"There. Got you started. Popped the cherry, as it were."

I’m horrified at what she might have written, afraid to even pick it up.

"Oh no," I whisper. "What did you say?"

Amanda beams, looking entirely too pleased with herself. "You're welcome."

"This is so beyond inappropriate."

Amanda rolls her eyes, flipping her hair over her shoulder. "Why? It's fiction. You can be as insane as you want. That's the whole point of having a digital boyfriend—you get to explore without consequences. Without judgment."

I groan, grabbing my phone and pointing toward the door. "Leave. Now. Before I fire you."

Amanda laughs, tossing her blonde hair over her shoulder as she struts toward the exit. "Oh, you're welcome, sweetie. Thank me later when you're having the best orgasm of your life."

The door clicks shut behind her, leaving me alone with my phone and whatever digital disaster she's just created.

I stare at my phone, afraid to even look at what she's written.

And then, against all better judgment, against every rational thought in my head, I tap the chat.