While we indulged in our decadent desserts, I couldn’t shake the sensation of being watched. It had been nagging at me for weeks now, this eerie sixth sense that flared up whenever I ventured out. Even Bruno and Tyrone were occupied with their own desserts—courtesy of my black card, because how suspicious would two mountains of muscle look just sitting there like brooding statues in suits?
I scanned the restaurant discreetly, taking in the usual mix of patrons. Couples lost in each other’s eyes, their jewelry catching the light like trapped stars. Business types discussing million-dollar deals between bites of thousand-dollar meals. A group of friends sharing a bottle of wine that probably cost more than my entire pre-Matt wardrobe. It was a world of wealth and normalcy all wrapped up in this glittering glass cage above the city.
Then my gaze landed on him—a young man sitting alone a few tables down. He had that kind of striking beauty that didn’t belong hidden in the corner of a restaurant: light-brown hair that was almost blond, soft blue-gray eyes that seemed to carry their own storm clouds. His lean frame was wrapped in a leather jacket that seemed deliberately casual among all the tailored suits, like a rebel crashed a black-tie party.
There was something suspicious about him—almost eerie—in the way he watched without seeming to watch at all. A prickling sense of recognition danced along my spine; I’d seen him before. At the coffee shop near the penthouse. Outside the Maxwell Hotel. Even at that little bistro where Fin, Ethan, and I had lunch yesterday. Always alone, always watching.
Not one to play victim or wallflower—been there, done that, got the hospital bills—I pushed back from my table abruptly enough to make both Ethan and Fin pause mid-dessert demolition.
“Andy?” Ethan’s voice was muffled by a mouthful of chocolate mousse. “What’s wrong?”
“Just spotted an admirer who needs a lesson in subtlety,” I muttered, smoothing down my designer shirt.
The mysterious watcher’s eyes met mine, and a slow, almost challenging smile spread across his face. There was something familiar about that smile, something that tugged at my memory like a forgotten dream.
I could see Bruno and Tyrone tensing from their table, desserts forgotten as they watched my movements. But this was something I needed to handle myself. No more being the damsel in distress—or whatever the male equivalent was.
I strode over with purpose, channeling what I hoped was Matt’s boardroom confidence rather than my usual sass-first-think-later approach. After the whole Carlos fiasco, I’d learned that sometimes a little caution wasn’t such a bad accessory to wear. One thing was certain—it was time to find out exactly why this stranger found me so fascinating.
“You know,” I said, stopping at his table and crossing my arms, “if you’re going for the mysterious stalker vibe, you might want to try being a little less obvious about it. I’ve seen better tailing jobs from mall security.” My tone was light, but there was steel underneath it. “Coffee shop near the penthouse, Maxwell Hotel, that bistro on Fifth—you’re either really bad at coincidences or really good at following people.”
The stranger’s smile widened, and something about it made my skin prickle. Not necessarily with fear—I’d had my fill of that with Carlos—but with a weird sense of déjà vu that I couldn’t quite place.
“Mind if I sit?” I didn’t wait for an answer, sliding into the chair across from him. “Since you seem so interested in my daily routine, we might as well get properly acquainted. Though usually, people just ask for my number instead of playing amateur detective.”
I could feel Bruno and Tyrone’s eyes on us, probably ready to leap into action at the slightest hint of trouble. But this guy didn’t give off the same dangerous vibe as Carlos’ men. This was something different—something almost… personal?
“So,” I leaned forward slightly, keeping my voice casual but my guard up, “want to tell me why you’ve been playing shadow to my sunshine? Or should I let my friends over there”—I tilted my head slightly toward Bruno and Tyrone—”ask the questions instead?”
The stranger lounged back in his chair with an easy grace that nagged at my memory. Something in the way he moved, the casual confidence that bordered on arrogance—it was frustratingly familiar.
“Amateur detective?” He chuckled, the sound rich and smooth. “That’s a new one. I’ve been called James Bond wannabe, stalker extraordinaire, eventhat creepy but hot guy, but amateur detective? That’s refreshingly original.”
The way he deflected with humor while saying absolutely nothing of substance—why did that feel so familiar?
“Got a name to go with all that snark?” I asked, keeping my tone light despite my growing irritation.
He tilted his head, studying me with those storm-cloud eyes. “You can call me whatever you like. Mystery Man. Shadow Boy. Professional People-Watcher. I’m partial toThat Enigmatic Strangermyself—has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”
“How aboutSoon-To-Be-Restrained-By-Securityif you don’t start giving me straight answers?” I countered, though something in his playful deflection kept me from actually signaling Bruno and Tyrone.
He leaned forward, dropping his voice conspiratorially. “You’re interesting, Andy Donovan. Not many people catch Matt Caine’s attention the way you have. I’ve been wondering what makes you so special.”
My blood ran cold. “How do you?—”
“Know about you and Matt?” He finished my sentence with a knowing smirk that was eerily reminiscent of… someone. “Oh, I know everything. The penthouse, the black card, the bodyguards. You’ve been quite the talk of certain circles.”
My hand twitched, ready to signal Bruno, but his next words froze me in place.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” he said softly, no real threat in his tone but something else—almost like amusement? “Unless you want to embarrass yourself in front of Matt’s men. They know exactly who I am.”
I glanced back at Bruno and Tyrone, who were indeed watching but making no move to intervene. In fact, they looked almost… resigned? Like they were used to this kind of situation.
“Who are you?” I demanded, turning back to him, frustration building. “Really?”
His smile widened, and for a moment, in the gleam of his eyes and the curve of his lips, I caught a glimpse of someone else—someone whose expressions I’d grown quite familiar with lately.
“Let’s just say,” he drawled, “I have a vested interest in knowing who’s sharing my brother’s penthouse these days.”
