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I’m just about to apologize for being nosey, when he answers.
“I actually don’t have any family here. They’re all out west. We’re…” It takes him a minute to find the right word, “…estranged. I haven’t seen them in over seven years.”
“I’m so sorry to hear that. I can’t imagine how hard that must be for you.”
He shrugs. Something passes over his face, and if I’m not mistaken, it’s anger. The look doesn’t settle well. I keep my mouth shut, not asking him to elaborate. It’s none of my business.
“What about your family?” he asks, the anger now gone from his face. “Do you have any family in the area?”
Glancing down, I fiddle with my cloth napkin, before looking back at him.
“No,” I reply softly. “Both my parents are gone. No siblings. I have an aunt and uncle and a few cousins in Montana, but that’s it.”
“I’m sorry,” he says sincerely.
I’m surprised when Marc reaches over and grabs my hand, the one still messing with the napkin, and gives it a squeeze. I know it’s in comfort, but for some eerie reason it makes me uncomfortable, which is the first time I’ve felt that way with him.
I look to see his eyes resting on our hands, and they are lit with interest. I pull my hand away, but the uncomfortable feeling lingers. I’m not exactly sure what brought on the feeling, but it’s there. Maybe it was the look in his eyes when he looked down at our hands. It almost appeared lecherous, which is weird because it’s the first time since we’ve started talking that I’ve gotten any type of creepy vibe from him.
“Sorry,” he murmurs when he senses my discomfort.
The waiter walks up with our food and places the plates in front of us. She refills our wine glasses before she moves on. Silence stretches between us.
I pick up my fork when a little jingle starts. Marc leans to the side to pull his phone from his pocket, looks down at the screen and announces, “I’m sorry, I need to take this. I’ll only be a moment.”
“Of course,” I smile, trying to bring back some of the easygoing conversation we had before he touched me. “Take your time.”
He gets up from the table and walks away, just as I notice my phone inside my purse is flashing. I pull it out and look at the screen.
Sterling: Don’t let him touch you again.
What the hell? I jerk my head and look around the restaurant. Most of the tables are occupied with couples quietly talking and laughing. I look over at the bar and see a man and woman leaning toward each other, talking intimately. The man has his hand on the woman’s back. There’s another woman by herself with her laptop open on the bar top. A lone man sits talking to the female bartender, and she laughs at something he says. I look around the rest of the room and see no one out of place or looking suspicious.
There is no way Sterling could know that Marc touched me unless he’s here. The fact that he’s so obviously watching me creeps me the fuck out. How in the hell did he know we were here in the first place?
Looking down at my phone, I type out a message.
Me: Are you watching me right now?
It doesn’t take long before I get a reply.
Sterling: I am. Do not let him touch you again, Poppy.
Although it’s a written message, I still feel the anger behind it. I look up from my phone and glance around the room again. Rolling my eyes, I look back to my screen.
Me: Who in the hell do you think you are? You can’t just follow me around. And how did you know I was here?
Sterling: I’ve already told you, Poppy, you’re mine. Other men don’t touch what’s mine. And I have my ways. There was no way I was letting you go out with that asshole without knowing where you were going. The only reason I let you go out with him in the first place was because I was going to be watching.
My blood is boiling at this point, and I’m starting to freak out. Him sending me flowers for months and then finally making contact is one thing, but to know he’s following me around is something else entirely. A tingle in the back of my head tells me this isn’t the first time either. If he can get my number and work address, then there’s no telling what else he’s privy to. He has to know where I live too. If he followed me here, what else is he willing to do? Oh my God, he knew I was getting in the shower last night.
I feel a prickle of awareness on the back of my neck, and I turn my head to look behind me. I don’t see anything out of the ordinary, but I know he’s watching me. I can feel his eyes.
My phone vibrates again, causing me to jump in my seat.
Sterling: Breathe, Poppy, and relax. I’m not going to hurt you.
A nervous laugh wants to bubble up at that, but I squeeze my eyes shut instead. What in the hell am I supposed to do now? I can’t just leave my date behind, but I don’t want to stay either. Only someone sick, twisted, and obsessed stalks someone, and this is exactly what he’s doing. It can’t be called anything else. Maybe I should call the cops, but can they really do anything? Would they think I instigated it by communicating with him? He really hasn’t done anything illegal, has he? I could probably show them the messages on my phone, but would that be enough?
