Page 27
The message underneath alerts me to a power outage in the area. Closing my eyes, I let out a long breath. If the power isn’t on by the time I get home, I’m going to lose my fucking mind.
I pull into the driveway and notice the lights are on. My phone connects to the Wi-Fi. It seems the power outage has been resolved. One of these days, I’ll let my brothers tinker with a backup. It’s never concerned me before, but then again, I haven’t had someone looking for me before either. Exhaustion from tonight’s engagement hits me as I walk through the front door. My social battery is truly dead.
Relishing the silence, I walk upstairs. Thoughts of Patience quickly flood my mind. I swear the woman won’t give me a moment of mental peace. My obsession has reached new heights. I can practically smell her perfume.
Rubbing my face and groaning, I step through my en suite, into my closet. Turning on the light, I quickly free myself from the stiff suit. When I slip into my lounge pants and T-shirt, the freedom of movement once again graces my limbs. When I reach up to grab the hanger for my suit, I freeze. Two hangers touch each other. My eye twitches. Scanning the closest pole, I notice nearly half the hangers have been moved—gaps and uneven spacing everywhere.
Who the fuck has touched my clothes?
I turn to see the extent of the damage. My toothbrush is fine, so is my toothpaste. Breathing becomes a easier. Maybe it’s just the closet. It’s possible. My eyes roam the length of the bathroom to the shower. I feel the twitch in my eye before my mind registers what is happening. The pump of the body gel has been turned to face the opposite direction of its shampoo mate. Bringing my eyes level with the pump, I use a single finger to align it in the correct position.
A surge of rage electrifies my body as I step back. Running my fingers through my hair, I lunge for the toilet tank cover. My arm draws back in preparation to release the boiling rivers of rage flooding my body. I stop myself before it makes contact with the glass shower door.
I close my eyes and pant, trying to organize the cesspool of thoughts churning in my brain. Exercises I’ve dutifully practiced take control and tell me to repeat my mantra: Perfection is the death of possibilities…I can live imperfectly…perfection is the death of possibilities…
My breathing steadies, but the stiffness in my muscles won’t subside. Wiggling my fingers and toes, I focus on the individual feel of them, letting the feeling move up my arms and into my shoulders. After a few minutes, I place the cover gently on the toilet.
It’s fine. Really. It’s fine. Fine. Absolutely fine.
My fist flies into my hair, grasping it at the roots. The pain is my small comfort amidst the disaster in which I currently live. Unleashing my emotion in a roar, I head out of the room. If this asshole wanted a fucking fight, he got one. Picking up my phone, I call Mark, who answers on the second ring.
“If you’re calling for further instructions, I can direct you to a nice little website—”
“Shut the fuck up. Someone has been in my house.”
“I’d ask if you were sure, but I don’t really think I need to. Did you get an alert from your cameras?”
Shit. The fucking cameras.
Running my hand down my face, I shake my head, frustrated with my own stupidity.
“I got an alert that there was a power outage while I was at the event.”
“Shit. I’ve been meaning to install a power backup. I’ll get it done tomorrow. What can I do? Do you want me to come over?”
The last thing I need is another person here while I crash out and try to get organized. Even if it is my brother.
“No, but thanks. Did you hear back from your friend?” I ask through gritted teeth.
“She said the person asking about you is an admirer of your work.”
It’s her. I scan the length of my room, and the pieces of this disaster fall into place.
“Tell her where I’ve planned the next site.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. This has Patience written all over it. She’s pissed that I followed her home. If she’s looking for my display, I’d hate to disappoint.”
He lets out a sigh. I can feel his eyes roll without having to see him.
“You followed her home? And she knows? You have her number—you could just text her yourself and skip the middleman. That’s an option.”
My stupid brother doesn’t understand the level of anger she’s capable of. I’ve already pissed her off several times by ruining her plans. Doing it again might just result in a syringe in my neck.
“Where would be the fun in that?” I end the call and shove the phone into my pocket, then pace the room. Once I’ve expelled enough energy from my body, I focus on the task at hand.
After several hours of cataloging and repairing the disaster, which is my house, I’m able to breathe a bit steadier.
