Текст книги "Love me stalk me"

Автор книги: Laura Bishop

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Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 27 страниц)

I SAY GOOD MORNING. SHE SENDS FILTH.

CAL

I leave the meeting with Izzy and head back to the security suite, but my focus never really leaves her. The soft click of the door closing behind me does nothing to break the connection I feel to her, even when she's out of sight.

One screen stays locked on her office, always.

It's not an excuse—it's security. It's my job. The feed shows her sitting at her desk, tablet in hand, shoulders slightly tense as she works through whatever crisis the morning has delivered.

That's what I tell myself, anyway.

But the truth is, I like watching her.

I learn her.

The way she smooths her hands over her hips when she's stressed—which I hate, because it means she's carrying too much, but also love, because my eyes are drawn there every damn time. Her fingers trace the curve of her body almost unconsciously, like she's reassuring herself she still exists amid the chaos.

She's got a body built to be touched. Held. And yet, she moves like she's constantly trying to shrink herself down. Like she doesn't want to take up too much space. Like she's apologizing for her very existence.

That pisses me off.

I don't get men like Evan.

Men who have a woman like Izzy and can't even see what they have. She's Italian, for fuck's sake. She's got hips, curves, softness in all the places a woman is supposed to. A body that's been celebrated in art for centuries, now treated like it's somehow wrong.

And damn, I'd love to sink my fingers into it while⁠—

I stop that thought immediately.

I exhale hard, running a hand down my face. I need to get a grip. The stale air of the security suite suddenly feels stifling.

But still, it frustrates me.

Because she doesn't move like a woman who's comfortable in her own skin.

She moves like someone who's been made to feel like she should be smaller. Like she should take up less space, fit some kind of bullshit, unrealistic standard. Her body language betrays every criticism she's internalized, every disapproving glance she's absorbed.

Like she should have Amanda's shape instead of her own.

Amanda, who's all long limbs, harsh angles, no softness anywhere. Not that there's anything wrong with that—but that's not Izzy. That will never be Izzy, and it shouldn't have to be.

Izzy's got a body made for indulgence.

And men like Evan make women like her think they have to change.

That they're too much when they're already perfect.

And if anything—she's malnourished.

I knew she wouldn't eat this morning.

Even with Caleb telling her to.

And I was right.

Watching her eat that sandwich in the conference room made me feel things I didn't know how to deal with. The way her eyes closed briefly at the first bite, the small noise of appreciation she made without realizing it—it stirred something primitive in me.

Frustrated.

Possessive.

Like—if she won't take care of herself, I'll just have to do it for her.

The clock chimes 11 AM, the sound jarring in the quiet room, and I push up from my chair, forcing myself to move. Staying here, watching her all day, won't accomplish anything but feed this growing obsession.

As I pull up the live feeds to do my rounds, I spot Amanda walking into Izzy's office, already talking, already up to whatever the hell she gets up to. Her blonde hair swings with each animated gesture, her voice inaudible through the monitor but clearly energetic.

Izzy looks up, shaking her head at something, but she doesn't kick her out. There's an ease between them I haven't seen her share with anyone else.

I check my phone.

She never responded to my text this morning. Well, Caleb’s text.

Caleb

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

Nothing.

I stuff my phone back into my pocket, ignoring the completely irrational irritation curling in my gut. She's still getting used to it. She was apprehensive about the app to begin with.

That's all this is.

It's fine.

I step onto the sales floor, the change in lighting momentarily disorienting after the dimness of the security suite. The polished floors gleam under the bright lights, the morning crowd still thin but growing. I scan the perimeter as I approach the first guy in rotation—Martinez.

"Morning," I say, nodding at him. "Everything good?"

Martinez straightens, alert, professional. "Yeah, all clear so far. Had a guy hanging around the watch display for too long when we opened, but he moved on once I gave him a look."

"Subtle intimidation. Nice touch."

Martinez grins, his earpiece chirping softly at his hip. "Figured I'd go for the don't even think about it approach."

I nod. "Works better than chasing them down after the fact." I scan the floor, checking the usual high-theft areas, noting the position of each security camera. "Anything else?"

"Couple of new employees seem green," he adds. "One of the girls in accessories left a display case open for way too long. I let her manager know, but it might be worth reminding them all about general security protocol."

I glance toward accessories, making a mental note. "Good catch. I'll bring it up in our next staff briefing."

Martinez nods, and I pat his shoulder once. "Let me know if anything changes."

"Always," he says, already shifting his attention back to his post, his posture returning to the subtle alertness that marks a good security officer.

I move on, heading toward the next position.

That's when my focus drifts.

It happens without me realizing it—the moment my brain isn't occupied, she's there.

Izzy.

Last night. The conversation I shouldn't have enjoyed as much as I did. The way she started opening up, even just a little. I shake my head. This is wrong. I don't do this. I don't attach. The military trained me better than this—attachment is vulnerability, vulnerability is risk.

And yet...

For the first time in longer than I can remember, I actually got a few hours of sleep. Not good sleep, but better than usual. The usual nightmares had stayed at the edges instead of consuming me entirely.

And I can't stop thinking about why. I'm still scowling at myself when I reach the next guy in rotation. Harris.

I nod at him. "How's it looking?"

He starts talking, and I make an effort to listen. I really do. But then my phone vibrates against my thigh. I glance at the screen. And freeze.

Pretty Girl has sent a text.

But not just any text. A completely dirty, nasty, filthy message.

To Caleb.

Jesus.

Harris is still talking. I am not listening.

"...Sir?"

I snap my eyes up. Harris is waiting, his eyebrows raised in question.

Shit.

I clear my throat, forcing myself back into the moment. "Sorry—say that again?"

Harris repeats himself, and I nod like I wasn't just blindsided by the filthiest text message I've ever received in my entire goddamn life. "Yeah, I was saying one of the cameras near the south entrance was flickering earlier. It's fine now, but I wasn't sure if it was a connection issue or if someone was messing with it."

I nod, forcing myself to focus. "Good catch. I'll have tech check the feed, see if there was any interference."

Harris shifts slightly, glancing toward the main floor, his weight transferring to his other foot. "Also, we had a guy loitering near handbags for a while. Didn't try anything, but he wasn't shopping either."

"Got a description?"

"Mid-forties, expensive suit, slicked-back hair. The type that looks like money but acts like trouble."

I don't like men who linger. They're usually either casing the place or harassing the staff. "Next time, call me," I say, my voice flat.

Harris nods. "Got it. You want me to keep an eye out?"

"Yeah," I say, already making a mental note to check the footage later. "If he comes back, I want to know."

Harris claps a hand to his headset. "You got it, boss."

I nod once, pat his shoulder, and keep walking. The second I round the corner, putting myself out of sight of both customers and staff, I pull out my phone again.

I stare at the message, the words glowing on my screen.

Read it.

Twice.

Fuck.

I wasn't ready for this. Now I have a choice. Do I respond while I'm at work and keep this whole thing going? Keep her engaged, keep pulling her deeper? Or do I let the AI take over for a while so I can actually focus on my job?

I take a slow breath, fingers hovering over the keyboard.

Another message comes in.

I read it, my heart rate spiking instantly.

And just like that, the decision is made for me.

THE NOT-BREAD BREAD FIASCO

IZZY

I cannot get that text out of my head.

It's just an AI. A fictional thing. A distraction, like Amanda said. Nothing to be obsessing over while trying to complete actual work tasks. But that hasn't stopped my mind from drifting back to it every few minutes.

Holy hell, Amanda. Way to ratchet up the heat level immediately. I swear, the woman has zero chill. Not that I expected her to, but still. A gradual build-up would have been nice. Maybe a few more conversations before she decided to kick down the door and introduce me to a whole new world of computer-generated filth. The text she sent was so explicit I'm surprised my phone didn't burst into flames.

I looked at the text once. Then I typed something about it being a mistake. Then I closed the app. I know Caleb responded—because he's programmed to. But I haven't had the guts to look at it yet, the notification sitting unread on my phone.

At first, I didn't want to. Then, as the day dragged on, I very much wanted to. The curiosity grew steadily more distracting by the hour. But between the sheer number of corporate emails trying to suck the soul from my body and the absolute nightmare that is sales planning for holiday season, I managed to stay just distracted enough to resist opening the app again.

I even got through a three-hour meeting with corporate to go over the finalized holiday forecast without completely losing my mind. My eyes glazed over around the time they started discussing projected foot traffic patterns, but I nodded at all the right moments and took enough notes to seem engaged. And somehow, miraculously, I'm actually leaving on time today. Which is so rare that I almost don't know what to do with myself. I head toward the exit, so lost in my thoughts that I almost run straight into a wall of muscle.

Again.

Correction: Callahan.

Again.

I stumble back, flustered, blinking up at him.

He raises a brow, amused. "We've got to stop meeting like this."

I groan, already recovering, already annoyed. "Maybe you should stop being built like a brick wall."

"Not my fault you're the one always walking into me."

I scowl, adjusting the strap of my bag on my shoulder. "Not my fault you're always in my way."

The expression on his face tells me he’s clearly more entertained than he should be.

Which, considering he’s literally in charge of catching criminals, is kind of insulting. The corners of his eyes crinkle slightly, softening his usual stoic edge.

He shifts slightly, eyes scanning my face like he's considering something, then nods toward the hallway. "You got a second? I wanted to go over my plan for beefing up security before the holiday rush."

I open my mouth to give some kind of half-hearted excuse, but then I look at him.

Really look at him.

His striking green eyes give nothing away, but still make me feel completely exposed. His ridiculous broad shoulders, the way he carries himself like he's in control of every room he steps into. The strong angles of his face, the slight shadow of stubble that's appeared since this morning. And suddenly, I don't want to leave.

I want to stay.

I want to sit in that conference room with him and listen to his deep, steady voice as he lays out his plans. I want to watch his forearms flex when he gestures. I want to see if I can coax that infuriatingly sexy half-smile out of him again.

And nope. NOPE.

This is not good.

This is Amanda's fault.

This is the AI's fault.

This is my fault for programming a damn chatbot that looks like Callahan and now I'm mixing them up in my head. The lines are blurring, and it's dangerous territory I don't need to be exploring. Not when I have a boyfriend. Even if said boyfriend hasn't truly seen me in months.

I need to get out of here.

My phone chimes, the sound cutting through my internal crisis.

I shake myself out of whatever trouble my brain was wandering into, and pull it out of my pocket, fully expecting to see a message from Caleb. My heart beats a little faster at the thought.

Except... it's not.

I grimace.

It's Evan.

Meet me for dinner? I have something special to talk to you about.

I furrow my brow, already suspicious. My thumb hovers over the screen as I read the message twice.

Evan and I do not do spontaneous dinner plans. He usually spends weeks planning everything out way in advance, his calendar a sacred tome that cannot be violated without serious consequences.

The back of my neck prickles with wariness. Then I look back at Callahan, who's waiting patiently for my response, his expression neutral but attentive. I clear my throat. "Sorry. Looks like I've got a last-minute meeting I have to catch."

For a split second, I swear I see a flash of disappointment in his eyes—a brief crack in his composed exterior revealing he actually wanted me to say yes.

But then it's gone. His expression smooths out into his usual calm, unreadable mask.

He nods once. "Understood."

I try not to feel bad about it, not to be bothered that he immediately shut down whatever that moment was. But the small pang of regret in my chest suggests otherwise.

He glances at my still-full water bottle, the one from this morning's meeting. "Drink that. And make sure you eat dinner."

I pause, momentarily thrown. Normally, when someone threatens my coffee habit, I tell them where they can go. But, instead, I smile, and words of agreement quite literally fall out of my mouth. "Yeah. I will."

And with that, I turn and head toward the exit, trying very hard not to think about how much of me wishes I were staying.

Evan's car is already waiting outside when I step out of the store.

Which, honestly, is insane.

Owning a car in New York is one thing. Owning a car when you live in the heart of the city and are paying more for a parking spot than most people pay for rent? Completely deranged behavior. But there it sits, a black BMW, gleaming under the streetlights.

But Evan is Evan, so of course he has a car.

I slide into the passenger seat and am barely buckled in before he pulls away from the curb.

"Where are we going?" I ask, glancing over at him. His profile is sharp against the city lights, his attention focused on the road ahead.

He shrugs, eyes not leaving the road. "Thought I'd take you to dinner."

I pause, thrown by the casualness of his statement. It doesn’t match his usual carefully planned approach to everything. "Like... just us?"

"Yeah. Just us. Unless your perfume counts as a third passenger. It’s practically fogging up the windows."

I don’t respond. Just press my lips together and turn toward the window, suddenly aware of the scent clinging to my skin. The one I’d spritzed on twice before leaving, stupidly wanting to feel pretty.

My eyebrows lift despite myself, suspicion creeping through me.

Because Evan does not do spontaneous dinner dates. Evan does networking dinners, business meetings over overpriced steaks, brunches with people who are somehow both named Chad. His social calendar is a carefully orchestrated dance of connections and impressions.

But this? Just us?

It's enough to make me wonder if maybe I've been the problem all along. Maybe he is being sweet, and I just haven't been noticing. Maybe I'm the one who's been too checked out. I need to stop overanalyzing and just... appreciate the moment. Let him be thoughtful. The city lights blur past the window as we drive, casting patterns of light and shadow across the car's interior.

Then we pull up to the restaurant. And I immediately know I should have trusted my instincts. The place is too clean, too aesthetic. There's a massive living wall covered in greenery, floor-to-ceiling windows, and a literal juice bar at the front. The sign glows with a minimalist font that screams "we charge $20 for a smoothie."

It's a health food place.

I resist the urge to bang my head against the window.

Don't jump to conclusions, Izzy. Maybe it's fine. Maybe he just wanted to try a new cuisine. Maybe this isn't going to be exactly like the last time he did this.

The last time he took me to a "cool new restaurant" and then blindsided me with an entire dinner featuring a personal trainer who thought I was signing up for something called a Tough Mudder. I spent the whole evening nodding along while quietly plotting my escape.

I take a deep breath, the cool evening air doing little to calm my rising dread.

Don't assume. Be open-minded. Maybe he's just being nice.

We step inside, the smell of wheatgrass immediately assaulting my nostrils. The interior is all clean lines and neutral tones, with Edison bulbs hanging from the ceiling and plants strategically placed in every corner. The clientele all seem to be wearing athleisure while discussing their latest spin class.

I want to leave.

Instead, I let Evan lead me to a table. The second we sit down, he doesn't even let me look at the menu. Just orders for both of us like this is the 1950s and I have the right to vote but not to choose my own meal. The waitress nods approvingly before disappearing, and I just blink at him, trying to process what is happening.

"You're really going for the full experience, huh?" I say, crossing my arms over my chest.

He barely glances at me, already reaching for his phone. "You never know what to get anyway."

That's not true. It's just that everything here looks like it was designed to be chewed by people who actively enjoy the taste of misery. The menu is full of ingredients I can't pronounce and preparations that seem unnecessarily complicated. I glance around at the entirely too curated, kale-heavy aesthetic. The waitress comes back and sets down a small basket of bread.

Except it's not bread.

"Enjoy," she says brightly. "It's sprouted, fermented, grain-free—full of plant protein."

I don't understand a single word she just said. But I am hungry. I reach for a piece, my stomach growling in anticipation. And that's when Evan's hand clamps over mine, his grip firm and cold.

"You don't need that," he says, calm, firm, dismissive.

I stare at him, my hand frozen beneath his. "Evan, it's not even bread. You heard the waitress. It's, like... sprouted beans or something."

He sighs, shaking his head like I'm a child who doesn't understand basic concepts. "Izzy. No. What about your goals?"

I blink.

Then I blink again.

I don't know what happens, but a dam breaks inside me. A rush of frustration that's been building for months suddenly threatens to overflow.

I pull my hand back, crossing my arms. "What about my goals, Evan?"

His eyes dart around the restaurant, like he's already embarrassed by this conversation. Like I'm making a scene by simply questioning him.

He leans forward slightly. "Don’t get the way you get."

My appetite vanishes, replaced by a hollow feeling in my chest. I sit back, staring at him, suddenly so, so tired. Our relationship—the accumulation of quiet disappointments—settles over me.

"What's the big surprise, Evan?" I ask, voice flat.

He exhales dramatically. "Well, now you ruined the night."

I’m incredulous. "I ruined the night? By trying to eat a piece of not-bread-bread at a restaurant you brought me to?"

He gives me a look, like I'm being dramatic. "It's your attitude, Izzy. That's what ruined it."

I laugh, no humor in it. The sound is hollow, echoing the emptiness I feel.

"Just say what you were going to say," I tell him. "Or don't. I don't care."

His eyes darken slightly, but he sits up straighter. "The owner of this place is also a nutritionist," he says, like this is supposed to be impressive. "I hired them to help you with your diet."

I just stare. I wait for him to laugh, to say it's a joke, that he isn't actually doing this.

But he doesn't.

He just looks at me expectantly.

Like I should be grateful. Like this is the best gift he could possibly give me—professional help to fix what he sees as my greatest flaw.

Like I should thank him for pointing out, yet again, that my body doesn't meet his standards.

A slow, simmering anger rises in my chest. For a brief moment, I think I'm finally going to say something. I think I'm going to tell him off, to tell him exactly what I think about him treating me like I'm some kind of problem he needs to fix. The words build in my throat, a pressure seeking release.

But then he gives me that look. The one that says there's no arguing with him on this. The one that says if I fight back, he'll just twist it around until somehow, it's my fault. And maybe he's right.

Maybe working with a nutritionist won't be so bad. Maybe I do need to be better about my diet. Maybe I am overreacting. I swallow back everything I want to say, shrug my shoulders, and say, "Okay."

Evan smiles, like this is proof that he was right all along. Then, like clockwork, he pulls out his phone and starts scrolling. The waitress comes back, setting down some kind of kale dish that looks like it was blended with despair and garnished with disappointment.

I take one bite.

It tastes like grass.

I chew.

I swallow.

And I tell myself not to cry.