Page 55 of Faking the Goal

That fucking nickname bothers me more than anything else he wrote.

Nobody calls me that. Nobody has ever called me that, yet whoever sent the card wrote it with this disturbing familiarity, like it's something he's been calling me forever.

And then there's the stuffed cat.

I spent most of last night trying not to look at it while simultaneously being incapable of forgetting it was there. Eventually, I shoved the whole thing into a garbage bag and took it outside because there was no fucking way I was sleeping with that thing anywhere inside my apartment.

Not that I slept much anyway.

Every little noise had me checking the door. Pipes rattling. Someone walking through the hallway. A car outside. Things I've heard a thousand times suddenly had me wondering whether someone was standing on the other side of my door.

The flowers were already getting too frequent, but this is different. Whoever this guy is, he's getting bolder. He knows where I live. He knows my birthday. And he keeps telling me he's going to see me soon.

I don't think I can stay there anymore.

I've already decided that when I get home today, I'm going to start looking for another apartment. Something cheap enough that I can move into quickly, preferably somewhere with better security and neighbors close enough to hear me scream if some psycho decides to make good on his promise to come see me.

Moving this suddenly is going to murder my savings.

Deposit. First month's rent. Moving expenses. Probably a dozen other fees landlords pull out of their asses because apparently handing over one pile of money isn't enough.

I can afford it, technically. I'll just have to tighten my budget for a while and maybe pick up a few extra shifts at the Velvet Lounge until I build my savings back up.

It'll suck, but staying somewhere I'm starting to feel afraid to sleep sucks more.

And maybe if I move before this creep figures out I'm planning to, that'll finally put an end to all of it. No more flowers. No more cards. No more packages waiting outside my—

"Taylor?"

I hear Kentaro somewhere through my thoughts but don't immediately register that he's talking to me.

Maybe I should look farther away from campus. It would make the commute worse, especially with work already being—

"Taylor."

I blink and find him watching me.

"Hmm?"

"I called you three times."

"Sorry." I rub beneath one eye.

His gaze stays on my face. "You look tired."

"Thank you. That's exactly what every woman wants to hear."

"You know what I mean." His brows pull together. "Did you get home late from work?"

The question catches me off guard, mostly because there's actual concern behind it.

Since when does Kentaro Azuma worry about whether I get enough sleep?

"Nope. Got home at my usual time. You're the reason I look like shit today." I gesture between myself and the ice. "I woke up sore in places I didn't even know could get sore."

"You'll get used to it."

"That's comforting. Did you know I spent my birthday yesterday covered in Salonpas patches? Very sexy. Nothing screams twenty-one like smelling aggressively of menthol and walking like somebody's grandma."