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A few seconds went by, and then:
Sounds like you’re angling for a rematch. I don’t know, though. Word going around town is you broke Trey’s bed.
I chuckled some more as I sank into my chair.
Trey broke his own bed. And come to think of it, he owes me some underwear.
A long minute went by. Then:
We’ll talk to him, and get it all worked out. The new underwear part, that is.
I gulped hard at the thought of the guys picking me out underwear. Of them dressing me up… any which way they wanted.
Shit, that could be a lot of fun.
I was about to write something else when a sign-off message appeared:
Sorry, gotta run again. Have fun at work, sexy. Talk later.
I pushed my phone away and kicked back a little, sliding my hands behind my head. I was starting the day with naughty thoughts, now. Dirty, distracting thoughts…
Trey’s bed.
God, that had been some night. Last night too. I’d had two amazing dates with three amazing guys. I could only imagine what would happen when we all got together again.
“Silver-grey Infinity.”
I looked up, straight into the pale, sparsely-bearded face of Chris. He was standing in my doorway. I was in such a daze, it took me a moment to even recognize him.
“What did you say?”
“Silver-grey Infinity,” he repeated again, matter-of-factly. “License plate XKD3100”
My brows crossed. “I don’t have a clue what you’re—”
“It was in my old parking spot last night,” said Chris, “at our apartment complex. The one right next to your car.”
My jaw tightened. “It’s not our apartment complex anymore,” I seethed. “It’s mine. And that’s not your spot either.”
“Hence the word ‘old’,” Chris countered. “And I’m just saying—”
“Anyone and everyone can park
there,” I laughed out loud. “Anyone and everyone does.”
“Oh I’m aware,” my ex acknowledged. “But never that car. Never a silver-grey Infinity, license plate numb—”
“How the fuck do you know that?” I practically yelled. “What are you doing, stalking my apartment complex? Taking notes on every car and truck that enters and exits? Writing down every license plate that…”
My voice died, trailing off as I realized the truth. Yes. Yes, he had. Chris was writing down license plate numbers. He was sitting in the parking lot of my apartment complex, drawing up a running schedule of who parked where, in which spots, and at which times.
Goddammit, I could see it perfectly.
“Chris…”
I felt queasy. The idea of him sitting in the lot, marking down license plates? It made my stomach roll.
“Chris, you’re sick.”
