Page 80 of Faking the Goal

Anything.

Anything except Taylor's mouth.

Another giggle floats across the room, and I close my eyes for a second.

This woman has been stirring up trouble in my life since the day she walked into it, but lately, the trouble has taken a completely different fucking form. The kind that has my blood running hotter, my body wound tight with restless tension, and an ache settling low in my gut while I sit here pretending my thoughts haven't gone completely off the rails.

And the worst part is, she has absolutely no fucking idea.

*****

TAYLOR

Monday comes around with every muscle in my body still protesting the fact that I apparently thought moving an entire apartment by myself on Thanksgiving was a reasonable life decision.

I may have gone slightly overboard with the Salonpas this morning. There's one across my lower back, another on my shoulder, two on my thighs, and a few more strategically slapped wherever something hurt when I got out of bed. At this point, I'm probably radiating menthol from across the Student Media office, but I don't give a shit. My poor muscles need all the help they can get. Smelling like someone's eighty-year-old grandmother is a sacrifice I'm willing to make.

Polly called everyone in this afternoon for updates on our winter issue features, which is how I find myself wedged around the conference table with the rest of the staff while she reminds us that we have three weeks left until deadline.

Three weeks?

It feels like she assigned me Kentaro yesterday, back when getting him to answer a single question required the patience of a saint. Now I've somehow spent an entire month photographing him, getting tortured on ice by him, and apparently becoming a regular fixture in his schedule.

One by one, everyone gives their updates while Polly makes notes on her laptop. Janice has two interviews left for her piece on former Ridgewater athletes who've gone pro. Marcus is waiting on photos. Someone from design is still chasing down final quotes for a campus holiday feature.

My phone vibrates in my lap while Brett gives his update.

I glance down and see another text from the same unknown number that's been blowing up my phone since yesterday.

UNKNOWN

Where are you?

A sick chill settles in my stomach.

It started with that exact question yesterday. At first, I thought someone had the wrong number and ignored it. Then another message came a few hours later asking why I hadn't told them I was moving.

That was weird.

UNKNOWN

Where the hell are you? Answer me.

But it was the next few that made it very fucking clear who I was dealing with.

UNKNOWN

Did I scare you off because I said I'll be seeing you soon?

UNKNOWN

Please, Kitten. Just tell me where you are. I promise I won't rush you into meeting me anymore if you're not ready.

I blocked the number immediately.

Then another number started texting me.

I still don't know how he got my number. For all I know, he's had it this whole time and simply preferred the flowers and cards when he knew where I lived. Now that I've moved and he can't leave his creepy little presents outside my door anymore, he's found another way to get to me.