Don’t look back.
Don’t look back.
I look over my shoulder, catching a glimpse of her standing on the patio, her eyes wide with fear as they lock with mine.
A warning fires through my brain.You’re going to jail.
I force myself to break the connection.
Legs don’t fail me now.
As I race away, I’m aware of two things.
First, I will never psychologically recover from this.
Second, I’m a clumsy stalker.
27
IVY
I squint at the retreating masked figure running through my yard. I recognize that run. I’d know it anywhere. Long strides. Controlled. Efficient.
Sebastian.
Well. That’s new.And deeply flattering.
A wide smile curls my lips as he bolts.
I glance over at the trash can lying on the ground. Poor Mr. Pickles is hiding by a tree, half of him illuminated by the porch light, his side heaving from fear. He was just trying to eat dinner when my stalker tripped over municipal waste, nearly giving the cat a heart attack.
As his footsteps grow distant, I fold my arms and smirk.
Well, what do you know.
He’s using my playbook now.
My very own masked stalker. I feel like I should earn points for this.
I never pictured Sebastian skulking around my patio in a ski mask, but here we are.
I go inside, pour some milk into a small dish, and set itbeside the food. My voice is soothing as I coax Mr. Pickles back over to it.
As I head back inside, my hands shake from excitement. My pulse thrums. I’m giddy from being stalked by the man I’ve been stalking.
That was a twist I didn’t see coming.
I take the stairs two at a time, humming “Espresso” by Sabrina Carpenter. I practically skip down the hallway and into my office.
Sliding into the chair, my eyes are on the screen as my fingers fly over the keys, the story writing itself.
They say the truth is stranger than fiction. Maybe so, but it’s also inspiration. And in this case, he’s my muse.
Nothing better than dual stalking.
By the timeI wake up, sunlight streams through my bedroom window.
I sit up, blinking. I stayed up until 4:30 a.m. writing, words pouring from my fingers.
