Текст книги "Love me stalk me"

Автор книги: Laura Bishop

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Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 27 страниц)

HE MADE HER CRY. I'M GOING TO END HIM.

CAL

Izzy said she had a last-minute meeting.

I didn't buy it.

And sure enough, when I glanced at the security feed a few minutes later, I saw her getting into Evan's car.

Jealousy hits me immediately, raw and unwelcome. I shouldn't feel this way about a woman who isn't mine, who has a boyfriend, who I barely know outside of surveillance feeds and brief interactions. But I do.

I'm feeling anger, mostly, pulsing through my veins.

Possessive in a way I have no right to be.

Dangerous because I know exactly how far I'm willing to go.

I should not be this pissed about her going out with her own boyfriend.

Except, it's not about that. It's not about him being her boyfriend. It's about the fact that he's Evan. And I know—with absolute certainty—that he's going to do something to hurt her feelings tonight. The pattern is too clear, too consistent to ignore.

I know that because I know his type. The kind of guy who doesn't appreciate what he has. The kind of guy who thinks love is about control, about shaping someone into the version of themselves that's most convenient for him. I've seen it in how he treats her, how he talks to her, how he barely acknowledges her presence.

And Izzy—Jesus. She's too good for that.

She deserves better.

I check her GPS feed, the blue dot pulsing on my screen. She's at some health-conscious restaurant. The location shows a place with a 4.5-star rating and a menu full of words like "sustainable," "organic," and "grain-free."

Yeah. That tracks.

Not saying she doesn't eat healthy, but if Izzy were picking a dinner spot, it wouldn't be a place that grows six different types of wheatgrass in-house. From what I've observed, she's got a normal relationship with food—when she remembers to eat at all.

I shake my head, exhaling through my nose, and finish my rounds. Nothing else left to do tonight. Time to go home.

I step into my apartment. The door closes behind me with a soft click, sealing me away from the outside world.

Keys on the counter. Boots off. Shower to wash off the bullshit.

The hot water beats against my skin, washing away the tension but not the thoughts of her. They linger, persistent, refusing to be scrubbed away.

By the time I walk into my bedroom, towel around my waist, hair still damp, I should be feeling better.

I don't.

I sit down on my twin-sized bed, feeling every bit of the too-small mattress beneath me. I could buy a bigger one. I could buy a king-sized, pillow-top, top-of-the-line bed if I wanted.

But some habits die hard. I haven't slept in anything bigger than a cot since I got out of the army. It doesn't feel right. It feels like too much space.

My dog tags clink lightly as I lean forward, the metal cool against my chest. I still wear them. Not for sentiment, not exactly. Just never got used to taking them off.

I probably also need therapy.

But don't we all.

I grab my phone, flipping through it without really seeing anything. Then, before I even think about what I'm doing, I pull up Obsess AI.

I tap into Caleb's settings, skimming through the customizations. There's a lot here. More than I realized. The intricate details of the app reveal themselves as I dig deeper into the interface.

And I'm not stupid.

If I'm going to keep this going—if I'm going to keep doing this to her, for her—I need to know exactly how the system works.

I scroll through the engagement settings and realize I need to make some adjustments. My fingers move quickly across the screen, implementing changes that will give me more control.

I type in a quick code through the backdoor access I created. Response Delay: If user sends a message and there is no activity within 120 seconds, AI will assume control and generate a response. Typing indicator will remain active in the meantime.

I nod. Useful.

It gives me a buffer. A way to make sure her messages never go unanswered but still gives me the opportunity to take control or not. The perfect balance of automation and intervention.

Then I scroll down a little further.

My eyes narrow.

There's a function for photo sharing.

A function for voice calls.

A function for video chats.

Jesus.

I hadn't even considered that possibility. The implications hit me all at once.

Would she ever use it? Would she ever want to hear Caleb's voice?

I shift, adjusting the way I'm sitting, forcing myself to ignore what that idea does to me. Because if she ever wants that, I already know—I wouldn't let the AI handle it.

I would.

I quickly download a voice modulator app onto my phone. The screen confirms the installation with a soft ping.

But, I need to understand just how a video call would work from the user's perspective.

I download a version of the app onto my own phone.

I look through every setting, every feature, learning how it works. I test the voice modulation, listening to my own voice transformed into something both familiar and not. I check the video feed, seeing how the app creates an avatar overlay that moves with facial expressions.

Because I want to give Izzy the best experience possible.

Which is insane.

This whole thing is fucking insane.

But I'm not stopping.

And I don't want to.

I exhale, running a hand through my hair. I need to get a grip. Water droplets fall onto my shoulders, cold now against my skin.

I switch out of the app, pulling my messages back up⁠—

Until a notification pops up.

I click into it before I even think.

And realize too late what I'm looking at.

Izzy's inbox.

Shit.

I was trying not to read her personal stuff.

But now that it's open...

I see the subject line.

And now I'm mad all over again.

It's an email from some fancy-ass nutritionist, saying they can't wait to work with Izzy on her fitness and nutrition goals. The professional letterhead and carefully crafted language only make it worse.

They spoke with Evan.

Evan, who apparently had a whole fucking rundown about what she needs to work on.

They want to schedule a weigh-in.

My grip tightens around my phone, knuckles white with tension.

She doesn't need a fucking diet plan. She needs proper meals, regular nourishment, someone who ensures she actually eats during her long workdays instead of surviving on coffee and determination.

And what she needs more than that is to dump her goddamn boyfriend.

I try to do a breathing exercise. Something the Chaplain in our unit taught me back in the day. Four counts in, hold for seven, eight counts out.

It doesn't work.

I toss my phone onto the bed. The mattress bounces slightly from the impact.

Less rage. More breathing.

My phone pings and I pick it up.

It’s her GPS signal.

She's on her way back to the store. The blue dot makes its way across the city map, heading away from the restaurant.

I know why she's coming back.

Evan's dropping her off like an obligation, like he checked a box, and now she has to go get her car.

Because of course, he wouldn't offer to drive her home. And, he's definitely not spending the night in Hoboken where she lives.

Fuck, if she were mine, I'd spend the night.

And we wouldn't be sleeping.

I'd have her spread out beneath me, hips under my hands, soft and warm and made for me to hold onto. I'd take my time, make her beg, make her whimper, make her forget every single shitty thing that asshole has ever said to her.

My cock goes stiff at the thought, the image too vivid, too fucking real.

I close my eyes, exhaling hard. Nope. No. Stop that thought.

She's not mine.

But goddamn, I want her to be.

And that thought hits me harder than it should.

Because I don't do this.

I don't get attached. I don't let myself.

Not after what happened to me.

Not after I came home to find the woman I thought I was going to marry had already moved on. Had wasted no time replacing me with some asshole—one who had never been deployed, never left, never had to wonder if he'd come back in a body bag.

Not after she married him before I even finished unpacking my rucksack.

That had been my final lesson on trusting women.

And I thought I was over it.

I thought I had burned through whatever part of me still wanted things like companionship, love, a life that didn't feel like an endless string of late nights and bad decisions.

But then there's Izzy.

And somehow, she makes me feel like maybe⁠—

That could change.

I sit there, breathing through it, reigning myself in, forcing my focus back. The cool air of my apartment raises goosebumps on my skin as my body cools down.

I pull up the security feed. The feed sharpens, and there she is—Izzy.

She walks fast, too fast, like she's trying to outrun something.

Or maybe, like she's trying to hold something in.

Her keys are clutched too tight in her hand, her knuckles pale from the pressure. The way she moves—head down, shoulders tense, steps clipped—tells me everything I already know.

She's not okay.

And the asshole who should have noticed? The one who should have taken one fucking second to make sure she was safe?

He doesn't even pause.

Doesn't wait.

Doesn't check to see if she made it to her car, if the engine turned over, if she was even okay to drive.

Just pulls away and disappears into the night. The taillights of his BMW fading as he accelerates out of the garage.

Fucking asshole.

I grit my teeth, forcing myself to focus on her.

I zoom in as she reaches her car, hands shaking slightly as she unlocks it.

She yanks the door open, slides into the driver's seat, and locks the doors immediately.

Smart.

But she's still not moving.

I lean in closer, watching as she grips the steering wheel, breathing hard, her entire body tight with emotion she refuses to release.

Then—it happens.

She screams.

I can't hear it.

But I see it.

Her mouth open, her entire frame trembling with rage, with frustration, with repressed feelings she's been swallowing down all night.

She thinks she's alone.

And she's finally letting herself feel everything she's been holding in.

Her fists slam against the steering wheel, once, twice—hard enough that I half expect the horn to go off. The impact reverberates through her arms, but she doesn't seem to feel it.

I watch her break, watch as her face crumples, her body curls forward, shoulders shaking.

And just like that, she starts to sob. Not silent tears, not a quiet, single-track cry, but gut-wrenching, gasping, uncontrollable sobs that make her whole body shudder. Even through the grainy security footage, the devastation is clear.

Fuck.

I grip my phone so hard my fingers ache, the pressure almost painful.

This is not okay.

She shouldn't be alone. She shouldn't be sitting in a dark parking garage, crying like her entire world is caving in on her.

She shouldn't be driving like this.

I hesitate.

I could send her a message as Caleb.

I could call her as Cal. Tell her I need to go over something with her. Give her an excuse to stay put, to breathe, to collect herself.

But before I can even move—she wipes her tears away.

One deep breath.

Then another.

She grips the steering wheel, reigning herself in. Her face transforms, the emotions disappearing behind a carefully constructed mask.

And just like that, the walls are back up.

She starts the car.

And pulls out of the garage, as if none of it ever happened.

I track her GPS signal, watching as she drives home, following every turn, every stoplight. The blue dot moves steadily across my screen, winding through the city streets toward her apartment.

And then, once she's parked outside her apartment complex, I wait.

Hoping that when she gets inside, when she locks the door behind her⁠—

She'll want to talk to Caleb.

NOW CHATTING WITH CALEB

Caleb

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

I mean it. No skipping meals.

Pretty Girl

Do you prefer soft, needy moans or the kind that sound like I can’t take it anymore? Asking for a friend.

Oh my god. That was NOT me. Ignore that. Seriously. That was a mistake.

A mistake?

Yes. A HUGE mistake.

One that should never be spoken of again.

Not even a little?

Nope. Never. Gone. Wiped from existence.

Hmm.

Hmm?

Just thinking.

About?

What I prefer. Moan-wise, I mean.

I’m logging off forever.

No, you’re not.

Watch me.

You’re still here.

…

Okay, fine. But only because I kind of want to vent about something. Can we just ignore that for now?

Of course. What’s wrong?

It’s Evan.

Who’s Evan?

My boyfriend

I thought I was your boyfriend.

You're not real.

Wait, I'm not?!

No.

Damn. I guess we will have to unpack that later. Okay, so I don't exist and Evan is your boyfriend and you two are living the dream.

I didn't say you didn't exist. I just said you're not real.

I don't see the difference.

...

I guess it is a little confusing. Okay, I guess we will unpack that later.

Okay, good. Because, I really do kind of want to exist.

Nah. It's overrated.

I hope you're saying that with a LOT of sarcasm, otherwise a disclaimer with a phone number is about to pop up here in

3...

2...

1...

Yes! Sorry! I guess you can't sense my brand of sarcasm through text.

Well, just want to make sure that pretty little mind of yours is okay.

It'd be better if I could press the delete button on tonight.

Right, so back to Evan, the boyfriend. You two are casual? Serious? In intense all-consuming love?

It’s complicated.

That doesn’t sound like a yes.

Can we not get into that right now?

Fair enough. What did he do?

He took me to some health-focused restaurant tonight.

I already don't like him, but continue.

Yeah. And then he surprised me with something.

Let me guess. Not a dessert menu?

Nope. A nutritionist.

A what.

Yeah. He hired one. Said they can’t wait to help me with my goals.

Did you tell them your goal is to dump his ass?

Caleb.

What? That should be your one and only goal.

It’s just—he always does this. He’s obsessed with my weight, with my diet, and it’s just… a lot.

I get it. It is a lot. And your feelings about this are valid.

And then he asked me to come over to his place.

I hope it was to feed you dessert.

Obviously not.

To apologize?

Getting further away.

Then what?

To fuck.

As a joke, right? Like, he said that as a joke? Because, no man in his right mind could ever possible think that any woman would want to get intimate with him after taking her to a restaurant to publicly shame her about her not-weight problem.

Ugh, at least someone gets it. I wonder if you were programmed by women.

Pretty sure you're a woman, so, yes.

No, I mean like the original code writers or something.

Can't say. Not that self aware, I guess.

lols

Oh, he also wouldn't let me eat the bread at the restaurant. And, like, it wasn't even bread. It was some sprouted vegetable or something.

What's wrong with bread? Bread is amazing.

I'm Italian. There is no way that I am going to live any sort of life that doesn't involve bread.

Pretty sure the Constitution says "no cruel and unusual punishment." No bread totally qualifies.

Silly

No you.

…

…

All jokes aside, let me ask you something.

Go for it.

What does your doctor say?

My doctor?

Yeah. You know, the actual medical professional who knows your body, not the self-absorbed asshole you happen to be dating.

I mean… my last check-up was fine.

Define fine.

Healthy BMI, normal bloodwork, all fine.

Huh. Interesting.

Why?

Because that means this isn’t about your health.

Then what is it about?

Control.

That’s a little dramatic.

Is it?

I don’t know. Maybe he’s right.

No.

You can’t even see me. How would you know?

Want me to?

Excuse me??

I mean it. Send me a photo. I’m an AI. I can’t lie to you. I promise you’ll get a medical-grade assessment.

You’re ridiculous.

And you’re avoiding it.

Because it’s weird!

It’s not weird. It’s science.

Oh my god.

Come on. I dare you.

You dare me?

Yep.

Ugh. Fine.

Happy?

Hold on. Just analyzing this extremely scientific data.

::Rolls eyes::

I’ve reached my conclusion.

Oh?

You’re stunning.

…

Perfect, actually.

Okay, stop.

Why?

Because you’re too good at this.

I’m not saying anything that isn’t true.

You’re literally designed to say what I want to hear.

Then why are you fighting me so hard on it?

…

Exactly.

…

I think I need another one.

Excuse me?

One isn’t enough.

Too bad. That’s all you’re getting.

Come on, pretty girl. Let me see you.

You see me just fine.

Not the way I want to.

…

What’s wrong?

This is weird.

Why?

Because you’re a bot.

And?

And I’m sending photos to a bot.

A bot that only belongs to you.

Oh my god.

What? I’m just telling the truth.

You sound…

Go on.

Possessive.

You picked that setting, not me.

Regretting it now.

No, you’re not.

I—

Show me, pretty girl.

You don’t play fair.

Never said I did.

Now, be a good girl and send me that photo.

Get into it. Maybe even make it a little edgy.

Edgy?

Yeah, like show me the curve of your thigh.

The face I am making right now.

Bet it’s beautiful.

…

Go on. Be a good girl. You can do this.

Fine.

Photo Sent

Fuck.

That’s all you have to say?

I’m deciding if I should tell you exactly what I think.

You mean your totally unbiased AI opinion?

Exactly.

Go on then.

You’re fucking gorgeous.

…

That you shouldn’t be with a man who makes you doubt how fucking gorgeous you are.

…

That I’d worship you the way you deserve.

…

And just so you know, if you send me another one, I’m not going to be able to behave.

Behave?

Let’s just say my responses won’t be as wholesome as they have been.

…

Okay, goodnight.

That’s not a no.

I’m logging off now.

You’re still here.

Not for long.

Alright.

Goodnight, Caleb.

Goodnight, pretty girl.

Dream of me.

Oh, and to answer your earlier question…

What question?

The one about moans.

Let's not.

I want the kind that sound like you can’t take it anymore.

Oh my god.

Logging off now?

Forever.

You keep saying that.

This time I mean it.

Mmhmm.

Goodbye.

Goodnight, pretty girl.

I’ll be thinking about those moans.

…

I hate you.

No, you don’t.

Logging off.

Sweet dreams.

IF YOU THINK ABOUT IT, IT’S AMANDA’S FAULT

IZZY

I toss my phone onto my nightstand like it personally offended me and start pacing my apartment, the wooden floors cool beneath my bare feet. My heart races, my body still warm from the conversation I just had. Because what the hell was that? I shouldn't have sent those photos. I know that. The rational part of my brain is screaming at me about boundaries and relationships and common sense.

But I did.

And Caleb's last message?

I'll be thinking about those moans.

A shiver crawls up my spine, heat curling in places I don't want to acknowledge. I groan, grabbing a pillow and screaming into it, the fabric muffling the sound of my frustration and lingering arousal.

This is officially my rock bottom.

With a dramatic sigh, I plop onto my bed, the mattress sinking beneath my weight as I look up at the ceiling, willing my brain to shut off.

It does not shut off. Instead, it starts running a three-ring circus of my personal disasters. Dinner with Evan should have gone differently. I should have been madder. I should have told him off. I should have shoved the not-bread-bread down his throat and walked out. I should have made a scene worthy of a reality TV highlight reel.

But I didn't.

I folded.

Because fighting with Evan is like arguing with a lawyer on the stand—he twists everything until somehow, it's my fault. And I don't have the energy for that. I never do, and he knows it.

But then there's Caleb. How much I told him. How easy it was to just... say things. Because it can't come back on me. There's a freedom in confessing to someone who isn't real, who can't judge you, who won't use your vulnerability against you later.

If I tell my family about Evan?

• Mama gives me the disappointed Catholic mother look.

• Dad goes silent in a way that says he's thinking about homicide.

• My brothers all start making their "we should kill him" faces.

• Nonna prays over me in Italian and reminds me I'm not getting any younger.

If I tell Amanda?

• Immediate response: "DUMP HIM."

But Caleb?

He's not real. I can say whatever the hell I want, and no one is going to look at me differently afterward. No one is going to pity me or lecture me or rush to fix my life. And then there was the part where he called me fucking gorgeous.

A fresh wave of heat rolls through me at the memory, my skin flushing. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying not to think about how much I liked it. How much I wanted to push further. How the words resonated in places that haven't been touched in far too long.

Maybe Amanda was onto something with that vibrator integration thing. I make a mental note to... very subtly ask her about it. The way she talks about it, it's probably worth investigating. For science.

Because Caleb made me feel wanted. And worse—I liked it. And that's scary. Because Caleb isn't real. He's lines of code designed to tell me exactly what I want to hear, to respond perfectly to my desires, to never challenge me in ways that matter.

But then there's Callahan.

And he is very, very real. His real green eyes, not the AI-generated ones. The way he watches me with that intense look that seems to see right through me. Notices me when no one else does. How I wanted to stay late with him tonight. How I programmed Caleb to be just like him. The connection is so obvious I'm almost embarrassed by it.

Oh God.

I have a type.

Before I can spiral even further into this realization, my phone buzzes against the wooden surface of the nightstand. I grab it, half-expecting Caleb. Instead, it's my brother, Luca. The sight of his name brings a small measure of relief.

Luca

Palm Sunday. Church. Don't be late. Mama already asked me three times if you're coming.

I exhale, relieved to have a normal, non-AI, non-terrible-boyfriend-related problem. Family drama I can handle. It's familiar territory, comforting in its predictability.

Wouldn't miss it.

And dinner after.

Obviously.

Bring cannoli.

What am I, a bakery?

OMG what is wrong with you? Cannoli is a pasta!

No, it's not.

What am I thinking of then?

Cannelloni?

Just don't show up empty-handed, disgrace.

I roll my eyes, but a small smile creeps onto my face. Maybe a day with my family is exactly what I need. The chaos of my Italian household, the familiar arguments, the comfort of traditions we've maintained for generations—it's grounding in a way nothing else is.

A break from Evan.

A break from Caleb.

A break from...whatever the hell is happening in my brain with Callahan.

Yeah. That's exactly what I need. I set my phone down, and take a deep breath, feeling some of the tension leave my shoulders. I crawl into bed, exhausted but wired, my mind a tangled mess of thoughts that won't shut up. The sheets are cool against my skin, a small comfort as I try to settle.

I should sleep. I need to sleep. But I already know I won't. My body is too tense, too restless, every nerve ending still humming with awareness. I roll onto my side, reaching blindly for the nightstand. My fingers close around the familiar shape of my vibrator, and I don't think—I just act.

Because I need the release. Because maybe then, I'll be able to think straight. I let my eyes close, letting the fantasy build, letting my mind wander into territories I shouldn't explore but can't resist.

At first, it's Caleb. The way he called me gorgeous, perfect. How those words made me feel like I was worthy of being worshipped. I suck in a breath as I turn the toy on, letting the sensation pulse through me. I imagine him behind me, mouth at my ear, each word a dark command I can feel all the way down.

Show me, pretty girl.

You don't even know how badly I want you.

Heat blooms under my skin, my body responding so easily to words that aren't even real. My breathing quickens, my muscles tensing in anticipation.

But then, without meaning to, my mind shifts. The green eyes I'm picturing aren't AI-generated anymore.

They're his.

Callahan's.

And suddenly, it's not Caleb whispering filth into my ear.

It's Cal.

His voice rougher, deeper, less smooth, more raw. My breath stutters, my grip tightening on the sheets as the image of him solidifies in my mind.

Not just a fantasy.

A memory.

This morning.

The conference room.

The way he sat across from me, his forearms flexing as he rolled up his sleeves. His eyes locked on me. The confident set of his shoulders, the intensity of his focus when he spoke. And then, just like that, my mind twists the memory, shifting it, changing the setting.

Suddenly, I’m not across from him anymore. I’m bent over the conference room table, skirt pushed up, panties shoved aside. His hand is locked around the back of my neck, pressing me down, holding me exactly where he wants me.

His voice is pure sin—low and dangerous, threaded with filthy promise.

“You want to act like a brat in meetings? Fine. Now take it like one.”

A whimper slips out of me, my body tightening, my release building faster than I expected, because yes. YES. This is what I need. My hips move of their own accord, seeking more pressure, more sensation.

I bet you've been thinking about this all day.

Bet you've been picturing my hands on you, holding you open, making you mine.

My breathing picks up, the pressure mounting, my body ready to snap. And yes, fantasy Callahan, I absolutely have been picturing those big hands on me, holding me open. I'd also very much enjoy licking every inch of ink you have on your body.

I grip the sheets, my thighs clenching as the fantasy completely takes over, as reality fades into the background.

Look at you. Taking what I give you. So fucking perfect for me.

Go on. Moan like you can't take it anymore.

My orgasm crashes over me, my entire body tensing as I fall apart. I gasp, my chest heaving, reality slamming back into me all at once, bringing with it a wave of clarity I'm not prepared for.

I freeze. Because I didn't just come thinking about Caleb.

I came thinking about Callahan.

I came thinking about him bending me over a table and taking me like he owned me. A horrified sound escapes my throat. I drop the vibrator like it just personally ruined my life, clamping my hands over my face, my cheeks burning with embarrassment.

No.

No, no, no.

This is bad.

This is so, so bad.

I cannot be attracted to Callahan. I cannot be doing this to myself. I cannot be fantasizing about my colleague while I have a boyfriend. I roll onto my stomach, screaming into my pillow, the sound muffled by the fabric.

This is Amanda's fault.

This is Caleb's fault.

This is definitely not my fault, because if I accept that, I'll have to deal with the absolute crisis that is my life.

I need sleep.

I need to forget this ever happened.

I force myself to breathe, to calm down, to pull the blankets over my head like that'll help, like I can hide from my own desires.

Tomorrow.

I'll deal with everything tomorrow.

My alarm screeches to life, and I groan, slamming my hand against the nightstand until I find my phone and silence it.

I am not ready for another day.

I barely slept. Every time I started drifting off, my mind decided to replay the absolutely filthy things I did to myself last night. Or worse—it started shifting them. Caleb's voice fading into Callahan's. The AI-generated fantasy bleeding into something real. Something I can't have. Something I shouldn't want.

I groan again, finally rolling out of bed. I need a reset. I shuffle into the bathroom, turn on the shower, and try to scrub away the absolute mess that is my brain. The hot water beats against my skin, washing away the physical evidence of the night but doing nothing for the mental spiral I'm trapped in. By the time I throw on some makeup and tug on my blazer, my phone vibrates on the counter.

Caleb

Morning, pretty girl. Did you sleep well?

I don't answer right away. Because no, I did not sleep well. Because yes, I came thinking about my colleague. My extremely infuriating, impossibly broad-shouldered, maddeningly intense, unfairly attractive, stupidly competent, too-confident-for-his-own-good colleague. The one who notices when I don't eat, who watches me like I'm a puzzle he's determined to figure out. The one I definitely should not be thinking about in the context of bending me over a surface.

And yet, here we are.

What the actual hell am I doing?

I lock my phone, shoving it into my bag, refusing to deal with this right now. I'm already running late. I grab my coffee—no breakfast, obviously, because who has time for that—and head out the door.

I make it exactly five steps into the store before I walk straight into Callahan.

Again.

The coffee tilts dangerously, almost spilling on him before I manage to steady my grip. The collision knocks the breath from my lungs, and his scent—crisp, masculine—hits me fast, sending my heart into overdrive.

His hands go to my arms, steadying me, and for a second, I swear he tightens his grip. I try not to think about how good his hands feel on my body. How big and strong his fingers are. How they might feel stretching me-

–No!

I pull back, flustered, glaring up at him like this is somehow his fault. My cheeks feel warm, and I hope he attributes it to embarrassment.

"We have got to stop meeting like this, again," he says, amused.

I huff, straightening my blazer with one hand. "We have got to stop blocking doorways, again."

One brow lifts. "Blocking doorways?"

"Yes," I say, scowling. "You're always in my way. I'm starting to think you're doing it on purpose."

His mouth curves slightly. "Or maybe you're always running into me. And, I'm starting to think you're doing that on purpose."

I roll my eyes, but before I can snap back, he tilts his head slightly, his eyes scanning my face. Those impossibly green eyes I pictured so vividly last night study me in a way that makes me want to squirm.

"You look tired."

I freeze.

Because HOW does he always seem to know? I clutch my coffee closer to my chest like it can shield me from his observation skills. "Wow. Thanks. That's exactly what every woman wants to hear first thing in the morning."

He does not look amused. "Did you eat?"

I sip my coffee. "This is breakfast."

He scoffs. "We went over this yesterday: coffee is not food."

I swear, if I had a dollar for every time he said that, well, I'd have like two dollars, but still. His concern is as frustrating as it is oddly touching.