She stands, a bright smile on her face. “I can’t stay long. I have things to do.”
“You don’t need to be here at all.”
“I know.” Her smile is as bright as the sun. “I enjoy doing this for you.”
“But you shouldn’t.”
I’m about to explain the concept of trespassing when she pats my shoulder, and my brain short-circuits from the damn chills rolling through my skin.
“Taking care of you makes me happy.” She gestures to the oven. “Make sure you use the oven mitts. They’re on the counter. Don’t want you burning yourself.”
“I know?—”
“Don’t forget to refrigerate the leftovers. You can take them for lunch tomorrow.” She grabs her coat and zips it, still giving me instructions. “Don’t worry about the dishes. I’ll do them tomorrow.”
Then she waves, shoves her feet into her boots, and exits onto the deck. I watch her climb the railing, swing one leg over it, then the other, and jump.
Without thinking, I open the door and look out, worried she hurt herself. She’s already on her feet, walking toward the trail in the woods with feline grace.
I close the door and hurry away from it before she catches me watching her and returns.
She probably has nine lives, just like a cat.
As I pour a glass of water, the smell of dinner wafts through my nose. My stomach growls.
She made filet mignon. My favorite.
I drink the glass of water, trying to reassure myself.At least my stalker cooks my favorite foods. And cleans the kitchen.
There are worse things in life.
The third time it happens,she’s already in my kitchen.
Not justinthe kitchen—usingit.
The dishwasher is humming, and the counters are wiped down. She’s barefoot, hair pulled back in a ponytail, humming softly like this is a perfectly reasonable way to spend a Tuesday afternoon.
“You forgot to eat,” she says, opening my fridge. “Again.”
I gape at her. She’s definitely stalking me. How else would she know I skipped lunch?
“I had coffee,” I hear myself feebly offer.
Seriously. What the hell is wrong with me? Just establish boundaries.She’s a petite?—
She gives me a look that stops my thoughts. The kind you give a man who should know better.
Tread carefully. She may know how to cast spells.
“I appreciate all you’ve done?—”
“No problem.” She pats my cheek. “I love taking care of you.”
Until I make you mad. Then what will you do? Glue my ball to my leg?
“That’s great.” My smile is fake. Sweat runs between my shoulder blades, and it has nothing to do with running. Or my job.
She stops, brows raising as she studies me. “Why are you looking at me like I’m about to glue your ball to your leg?”
