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The streetlamps switch on like fireflies around the town square. They’re electric, but made to resemble old-timey glass-globed gaslights.
I smile.
Out here, I’m surrounded by people, their quiet chatter, and the cool evening breeze. But it’s still so quiet compared to the New York bustle I’m used to.
I think I can even make out a few chirping crickets and a distant owl calling.
I’m so relaxed I almost don’t ping on something that should set every hair on my body on end—a dark shadow moving across the town square, too close to my car.
I almost missed it in the deepening night, but no.
No, there’s someone there. A tall male shape?
I jump to my feet with a snarl.
Stupid Lucas Graves.
As if him showing up at the school to rescue me from a finicky door was just a coincidence.
Like hell.
I grumble and stalk back inside the café just to cool down, before I fly out there and make a liar of myself and end up getting pretty dang violent, after all.
The last thing I need are more strange men shadowing my every move.
Yes, I get that he’s a cop.
Yes, he’s probably got good intentions.
But he also slides under my skin way too effortlessly and he’s squatting in my head, rent free.
I order another frappe shake to go, counting to one hundred under my breath until my blood pressure drops, then thank the barista and turn to leave.
Then someone pulls the door open from outside just as I’m pushing through it, and I’m yanked off my feet.
I smack right into a warm, hard chest.
Or not so warm anymore, considering I lose my grip on my shake and all sixteen ounces of sugary coffee splashes all over the stranger.
Spluttering, I shove back, swiping at my face. “Oh my God, I’m sorry. I didn’t—”
My tongue locks up when I see who’s wearing my drink.
Go ahead. Guess.
He stands there with a dead expression, the front of his tight grey t-shirt soaked down to the waist of his jeans, specks of whipped cream in his glossy black hair, more froth dripping off his jaw from the tip of a chiseled nose.
Blinking slowly, he swipes his thumb over a dollop of whipped cream along his cheekbone and then licks it off.
I didn’t know a tongue could be so lazy and so obscene simultaneously.
“Thanks for the free drink, New York,” he says flatly. “Hell of a way to deliver it, though.”
And I crumple halfway to the ground in a laughing fit, clutching my aching sides.
His eyes dip down, waiting patiently until I’m over my little manic fit.
That’s when I realize I’m also soaked—and wearing a thin white babydoll tee.
Oh, boy.
It wasn’t translucent before, but now, I’m scared there’s a shadowy suggestion of my black lace bra underneath visible to everyone.
Especially the lion-man grumpily eyeballing me into the ground.
I glance down in horror.
Yep, he’s getting a freaking peepshow with my cleavage soaked. Even the color of my skin shows through.
“Son of a—”
“Better take that off,” he drawls in that same bored tone that can’t be anything but sarcasm. “Miss Janelle can help you get that stain out before it sets, if you hurry.”
“Oh, sure. Let me just rip my shirt off right here in the middle of the café!” I bite off, glaring at him. “What the hell are you doing here? Are you stalking me now?”
“Could’ve sworn I just came in for an evening coffee, but sure. I’m after you, New York. Left my Michael Myers mask in my car.”
“Why you—”
“Miss Delilah.” Lucas sighs, his expression hardening. “Fine, I’ll fess up. I’ve been watching out for you a little bit when I can. No peeping at you through windows or eyeing you every waking second. I’m just double-checking to make sure you’re safe. Also, we’re blocking the door.”
“Then move,” I snap, trying to shove past him. Good luck. It’s like pushing a brick wall. All I get is a handful of rock-hard abs slicked in wet, sticky cotton. “And stay the hell away from my car.”
Lucas steps aside with an odd look.
“Wasn’t anywhere near your car, lady. You seeing shit?”
I do a double take, refusing to let my nerves set in.
“Look. If you’re going to be honest about stalking me, don’t lie about the rest.” I flash him another middle finger salute, then sail past as quickly as I can, lifting my chin like I don’t care about the few people still in their outdoor seats staring at us.
Like I don’t already feel stripped naked, flushed from my face down.
“Go to hell, Lucas Graves.”
“Already there,” he calls after me.
I ignore him as I fold my arms over my exposed chest and try sprinting across the square without breaking into a full humiliating run. Especially when I feel Lucas’ eyes practically burning between my shoulder blades.
It’s like having your bra strap snapped by someone’s stare.
