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I reread the short messages again and again.
Seven o’clock tomorrow night.
I’ll be there.
The texts are screaming at me. This is important. I know it is. He’s meeting Ed. I just know it.
And I want answers. Now.
I have no choice.
I’m going to have to stalk my stalker.
I leave his phone exactly as I found it, bending down at eye level to make sure the square angle is in perfect position as when I picked it up. Who knew geometry would be needed for espionage? I thought teachers had lied to me about it being an important part of life.
Lesson 101 in stalking your obsessive, murdery stalker/almost boyfriend/person: geometry is key.
Once the phone is perfectly in place, I exit the room to find Rowan standing up, stretching his arms over his head. The move makes his every muscle flex across his ribs and abdomen and arms in the most delicious way possible. His broad shoulders are this smooth perfection of power that’s only interrupted by a short, jagged scar at the top of his arm. The strange urge to lick that scar flickers in my mind.
And then my gaze drops to his chest, and every ripple is a map that only draws my attention lower and lower until I’m memorizing how deeply etched the lines veering down his hips are.
For a second, my brain short-circuits. I can’t concentrate. I swear I drool a little.
Fuck. Focus. You’re a spy now. You’re better than this. You’ll catch flies if you don’t stop.
I shake myself out of the stupor his body puts me in and look up at his eyes to find him smirking at me like he knows just how hot he is. From all the unread messages courtesy of the puck bunnies, I’m not surprised. He never entertained them though.
I wonder why. I can’t ask though. Even if it’s all I can think about.
“Morning,” he greets, too casually after all the heavy reveals of the night before. After literally looking me in the eyes and telling me he wants to kill me. I could never repeat any of those words to anyone else. I can barely look him in the eyes, but I can’t help the allure of how much they sparkle when he looks at me.
“Morning,” I whisper.
We stand facing each other for a few moments. Like neither of us knows what to do or how to approach the other. Why is everything harder in the light of day?
This situation is so fucked up. He’s been monopolizing my life for the longest time. He broke into my house as an introduction, made me cum when we’d barely spoken two words to each other. He chased Simon away, pushed his cock down my throat, and threatened my life. Now he’s standing in my room, shirtless and staring. It feels a lot like a relationship, or at least toeing the line of a very fucked-up one.
The truth of the matter is, he knows me better than anyone. And with that, there comes a certain vulnerability in the space that echoes between us. We are something, even if whatever we are hasn’t been defined yet.
And it seems neither of us knows how to approach it.
“So, what are your plans today?” he finally breaks the silence and asks.
I narrow my eyes on him. “As if you don’t know.”
His lip twitches like he’s fighting off a smile. “Yeah. I thought I’d give small talk a try.”
“Small talk is stupid.”
“Fine, so you have to work with Anna today until five. You’ll probably pause for lunch at eleven because you never eat a good breakfast, and then you’ll scroll your phone the last twenty minutes of your shift unless your coworker accidentally breaks another dead guy’s finger off.”
Damn he’s good.
“That only happened once,” I defend rather lamely. I won’t tolerate Anna slander. She’s been too nice to me. My only friend. Though when I look in his eyes, I can tell he’s not really being malicious about the comment, so I sniff. “Then I have to get some homework done.”
“Alright. I’ll be–”
“Watching me from the window? My closet maybe?” I give him my cheekiest smile to let him know I’m joking.
