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I sprint towards the door, my urgency barely contained. Slamming into it with a little too much force, I grip the handle, quickly locking it with a twist of my wrist.
Not even bothering to leave a note on the entrance, I shuffle to the back of the café, my phone gripped tightly to my chest. When I reach the bathroom, I rush inside, my breath coming out in ragged gasps.
Why?
I tap my phone, staring at the photo again.
There I am, plain as day, handing the college girl her latte. Leaning across the counter, a thin sliver of my cleavage shows. Fucking creeper. It isn’t my fault that my shirt doesn’t fit right. If I button the last button, I guarantee my boobs will snap the thread. Besides, nothing shows. Not ordinarily. If it did, my boss would sure as Hell gripe me out over it.
I tug at the white collar of my uniform, a fresh wave of insecurities rising. Is my new stalker, most likely that slimy piece of shit Joey, going to rape me? Why else would he send something like that? And truthfully, no gentleman would have tried to feel me up when I handed them their beverage.
Joey or not, this stranger wants to hurt me. He knows where I work. I’m pretty sure he’s the masked menace from my encounter while I walked home, too.
Typing like a madwoman, I Google ‘how to get a restraining order’.
For the rest of the night, I sit here, researching and having intermediate panic attacks. I don’t reopen the store until ten minutes before Stacy arrives. If someone tattle-tells on me in some Yelp review later on, then whatever. If the boss asks, I’ll make sure he knows how bad the security at this stupid fucking job is. Maybe I’ll even demand a raise.
I splurge on an Uber once I clock out, lingering near the door with a frappe in hand until the car arrives. The driver is a woman, thank God, and plays a quiet jazz tune from her speaker as we travel. I tip her fifty percent of the lift price, despite not having the funds to spare. She was kind, but most importantly, she just saved me from running the entire way home. Probably saved me from a few hysterical tears, as well.
The lobby inside my apartment is silent, other than the occasional soft snore from the watchman. I tip-toe around the gray-haired man as he leans back in his chair, only quickening my pace once I’m a few yards away.
I jam the elevator button three times, bouncing on the balls of my feet.
“Rough night?”
I spin, a surprised cry building in my throat. When the man’s flawless face appears, I push it back down.
Samuel.
I exhale, releasing my anxiety with the breath. “You have a bad habit of sneaking up on people, you know.”
He smiles down at me, teeth glinting. “I’d argue that it’s you who startles too easily.”
I roll my eyes, facing the elevator doors as they slide open. Samuel places his hand on the small of my back as I enter, guiding me. An excited zing runs from my stomach to my throat, but I force it from my thoughts. There are too many emotions to unravel tonight, so this one will have to wait.
I lean against the metal wall, observing him. “So, how was your night of fine whiskey and money laundering?”
He knits his brow, staring at me quizzically. “I’m sorry. What?” His head tilts in this innocent, adorable way, dark hair flopping.
I laugh, and the action breaks away a chunk of the anxiety lingering in my chest. “Joking.” I shrug. “You wouldn’t tell me your occupation when I asked the other night, so I figured you to be some kind of mobster criminal. Plus,” I gesture with my index finger at his suit, black gloves and all. “You absolutely look the part.”
He stands a little straighter, tugging at the bottom of his black button-up shirt. “I’m… sophisticated. Classy,” he winks at me, causing the ripple of butterflies to start all over again. “But not in the mob.”
I swallow, my throat tightening. When I reply, my voice is shaky. “You’re a third-shift banker, then?”
He mocks a grimace, his eyes alight. “Not the banking type, either.”
His infectious energy wraps around me, loosening more of my stress and creating a center of aloof calmness. I’m just about to quip back a seductive suggestion of him being a male escort for wealthy cougars when the elevator dings, its doors shuddering open.
Samuel shoves his hands in his pocket, an enamoring gaze flicking toward the opening in a silent gesture for me to exit first.
Holy Hell, this man’s charm could make an angel fall to ruin.
I grip the straps of my bag tight as I walk through the doorway, my pulse quickening. You do not have time to flirt with the neighbor. You need to be preparing for war against your stalker. Rehearsing the moment you walk through the NYPD doors to get a restraining order. Not drooling all over Samuel’s shoes.
Samuel lines up with me as we walk. “Have you had any more trouble with wackos on the streets?” His tone is smooth. Guarded.
I lie. If I decide to flirt with him after this entire situation is settled, then I don’t want to be the neighbor who had a stalker. I want to be the neighbor who has a wealth of wit and pretty curves. “Nope.” My gaze flicks toward him. “Must have been a fluke, like you said.”
