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From the corner of my eye, I peek over at her, mesmerized as she melts into the couch behind us. I pretend not to notice as she gravitates closer. As her arm brushes mine. As she subconsciously seeks my touch.
I love the idea of her wanting me close. Too much.
Not now,I chastise myself.
Kirsten shoves shrimp after shrimp in her mouth, followed by a meatball. She slurps a heap of rice noodles between her chopsticks before gulping the warm ph? broth. A moan rumbles in her throat a beat before a sigh leaves her lips, as if the soup is a balm for her soul.
But with one simple act, an odd spark of jealousy flares in my chest, and I mentally growl at myself.
It’s a bowl of soup, dumbass. Get your shit together.
This woman turns me into a horny, bumbling fool. When it comes to Kirsten, all my rationality goes out the window. Shamelessly, I’m addicted to her flirtatious demeanor, sunny smile, and kind heart. But oh, how I wish I was the bearer of her solace. The one to make her moan.
I dip my egg roll in the tangy, sweet sauce and bring it to my lips. “So, about that note.” I shove half the roll in my mouth and arch a brow when she twists to meet my stare.
“I…” She clamps her lips between her teeth and turns, giving me her profile. “I, uh…” She sets her soup on the table, crosses her arms over her chest, and fidgets.
Much as I want to drop the subject, much as I want to wrap her in my arms and tell her not to worry, I bite my tongue and remain rooted in place. I refuse to interrupt her thoughts or downplay her concern. If something made Kirsten a shell of herself, I want every damn detail.
Shortly after the woman in the woods was discovered, Kirsten learned of her resemblance to the victim. Days later, she stumbles into the police station, pale and panic-stricken, asking to speak with me and refusing any other help. Fritz said she looked on the cusp of fainting.
Damn, I still hear the shakiness in her voice from the call—a potent cocktail of distress and alarm.
“A note was on my car.”
One bite after another, I keep my mouth shut. Keep my thoughts to myself. Grant her time to find the right words and the strength to tell me about the note. Give her breathing room while staying close, my silent way of saying I am here.
Were it some cutesy note from a regular diner, she would smile and brush it off. Maybe tease them the next time they stop in for a hot meal. And I’d be none the wiser. There would be no need to share a harmless note of adoration.
The fact that she went to the station and sought me out says the note is far from friendly.
Minutes pass without a word. I study the silhouette of her profile against the fire. Once, twice, three times, her lips part to speak, but she snaps them shut. Pain twists her expression, and I fight every instinct to drag her into my lap, band my arms around her middle, and never let go.
I reach for her, ready to sayFuck it. But as I do, her voice breaks the silence.
“After work, I found a note on my car.” Her fingers curl into tight fists as she nibbles on her bottom lip and turns to face me. She closes her eyes, inhales deeply, then knocks the air from my lungs when her stormy blues meet my ambers. “It wasn’t the first note.”
It takes a beat for her confession to register. For the words to really sink in. When they do, I drop my takeout box on the table.
“What?” The single word comes out harsher than intended.
Kirsten winces and I immediately hate myself.
“Sorry.” I count to five in my head and force myself to calm down. She needs cool and collected, not senseless and hysterical. “Sorry,” I repeat. “Do you have the notes?”
With a nod, she rises and shuffles toward her bedroom. She reemerges with her purse and drops back to the spot next to me. After a little digging, she hands over a crumpled napkin and a tattered piece of paper. Unraveling the napkin, my molars gnash together as I read the sloppy scrawl.
What theactualfuck?
Whoever this is, they obviously visit the restaurant whileIam there. Some sick pervert watching us interact. A psycho deviant with nothing better to do than trail innocent women.
I read the note again. And again. My gut churning more with each pass. Leveling Kirsten with a softened gaze, I ask, “Have you gone out with someone recently?”
Pink stains her cheeks. “Wasn’t a date.” She shakes her head, grabs the blanket from the floor, and covers herself. As if the blanket will shield her and make this creep disappear. “I met Ben at Dalton’s to catch up. We talked over dinner.” She shrugs. “It was casual. Two friends who haven’t seen each other in years. Nothing happened other than an innocent hug and peck on the cheek.” The words rush out of her. “He walked back to the inn and I drove home.”
Jealous as I am thathegot time with Kirsten away from the restaurant, I can’t be angry. They were grade school friends that went in different directions. Them reconnecting and sharing a meal after more than a decade apart is normal. Still, an envious flame burns green in my chest.
“Okay,” I say, much calmer than I feel.
