I’ll admit it. Having a shadow had more perks than I was expecting.
Not that Marcus needed to know that. His ego was already so big I was surprised it didn’t have its own zip code.
But in the week he’d been glued to my side, little pieces of my life had started to stitch themselves back together. I walked to Pin’s instead of ducking into cars with blackout windows. I pulled a Flo’s apron over my head for the first time in three months. Hell, I’d even shown up to a 1pm class. Granted I left ten minutes later but still, it was progress.
And for the first time in a long time I was, dare I say it, happier.
Until Marcus Romano reminded me of his presence and burst that beautiful bubble I was living in. Because, well, I think he just enjoyed being a dick.
Without asking, he’d torn through my phone like it was a weapon waiting to go off. Resetting this, rewiring that, and handing it back to me like I should’ve thanked him for turning it into a live-stream of my own life. He said it was to trace themystery text, but with every buzz I half expected him to lean over my shoulder and read it aloud.
Some days, I’d go to grab a coffee or lock the bathroom door and catch myself hesitating, like I needed clearance first. He wasn’t invasive, not outright, but the air between us carried that itch of being watched. Like someone had peeled off one more layer of skin I hadn’t meant to shed.
I had to remind myself that it was for the greater good.
Still hadn’t sunk in, but here’s to manifesting.
But I think the biggest not-perk of all was when I saw his oversized car pull up at the townhouse next door this morning, and a team of people unloaded suitcase after suitcase onto the sidewalk and up the steps beside ours.
I swallowed down half a crumpet and threw on my dressing gown, shoved on my slippers, then marched down our porch steps until I was stood before him.
“What’s going on?” I asked, my arms folded, reading glasses slipping down the bridge of my nose.
He lifted his sunglasses and rested them on his forehead. And like they always did, he looked at me like he was regretting ever learning my name. “That’s not a very neighbourly tone.”
A scoff tor through my throat. "It's eight in the morning, that isn't the time for neighbourly tones."
Sniffing a laugh, he looked at his bags, picking the largest one out of the boot with one arm, his tanned, tattooed muscles flexing under his tight black shirt. “What does it look like is going on?”
My slippers scuffed on the street as a scoff tore from my mouth. “It looks like you’re moving in next door.”
He dropped the case to the floor and rested his body with one arm up on the boot door, his smile dripping with sarcasm. “Look at you pointing out the obvious before 9:00 a.m.”
My face scrunched as he stepped around me and I spun to watch him dump his case on the sidewalk. “Do you just become a dick when the wind changes or something?”
He shook his head. “When the sun goes in, actually.” His smirk was dripping with mischief, but it soon vanished when he began up the steps.
I was quick on his heels, my arms flailing as I followed him up. “Are you gonna tell mewhyyou’re moving in next door?”
He shrugged, fumbling in his pocket for the keys. “No one lives here and I didn’t exactly love the idea of just camping in my car whilst watching your house every night.” His head flung to me. “It’s just a precaution.”
“A precaution that feels like I’ve lost the last of my privacy.”
He jammed the keys into the door and paused before twisting, his gaze burning me. “I think you lost the right to proper privacy when you became the internet’s version of royalty.” He twisted the doorknob and the door cracked open. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some unpacking to do.” His eyes swept up and down my dressing gown. “You’ve got half an hour to be back out here. I’ll drive you to class.”
“But—”
Before I could finish, he slammed the door in my face. The last thing I caught was his shit-eating grin.
“Arsehole,” I muttered, low enough that he couldn’t hear, though I knew if he did, he wouldn’t say a thing.
For someone with opinions on everything, Marcus wasn’t exactly Mr Talkative. We’d exchanged maybe five sentences since that night at the Prada event last week, and shared countless silent car rides and sidewalk meetings—none of which made him any less of a stranger.
When it became obvious he wasn’t about to braid my hair and swap secrets, I did what any rational twenty-one-year-old would do—I Googled him.
The basics came easy: CEO of Romano Security alongside his brother, the country’s number-one company for keeping people like me from being hunted, stalked, or worse. Fine. Impressive. Whatever.
But the personal stuff? That was harder. There were no picutres, which I found odd. A few puff pieces naming him“Hottest Business Bachelor of the Year”or whatever crap they came up with to keep the corporate boys excited.
