Gill:Assuming 100 is epically creepy? 101. But, I’ll do it if you want.
Me:That creepy? Wow. I think I’m losing it over this girl.
Gill:It happens. Tell you what, I’ll do a quick search for her on the sites. No deep dive. Good enough?
Me:Yeah. Thanks.
I walk into my bedroom and look around. It’s cold in here. No, not the temperature. The room looks cold and it has no personality. It’s all gray and dark wood. The walls are gray, the bedding is gray, and the floor is bamboo that has been stained dark. The furniture is the same dark wood. The only bright spot is the floor-to-ceiling windows that show Chicago’s well-lit skyline. But once the gray curtains are closed, there’s nothing special to see in this room.
I walk into my bathroom and see the same gray. On the bright side, the living room isn’t gray; it’s taupe. The furniture is taupe, the rug is the only thing interesting with its stripes of, you guessed it, taupe, gray, and a single cream-colored stripe to liven things up. I think about the kitchen: gray, again. “What the hell?” I mutter. “Is there any color in my life?” Thoughts of MacKenzie’s place with the riot of color and the whimsical touches juxtaposed against my gray surroundings hit me like a sledgehammer. My life is lackluster and in need of color. MacKenzie is the color that I need in my life—literally and figuratively.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
S-L-U-T
I wake up with a headache.I know I didn’t get drunk. I had two beers at the restaurant and one sip of beer here. The headache must be caused by my lack of sleep. I fell asleep fast but woke up tossing and turning. Tossing and turning because I was turned on. I’m still turned on, hours later. Damn, that man got my motor running. Stopping to think, I admit to myself I don’t remember ever feelingthatturned on, ever. I’ve felt excited with a guy before, but not likethat. I can’t deny that Sam Stone is different. When I touched his arms, they were solid muscle. My hands were dying to touch more of him. Touch? I meantseemore of him. Okay, both—see more and touch more of him. I bet his chest and stomach match those arms.
Crap. I’m turned on again. Should I help myself with that? I could do it in the shower, but sadly, I’m running late. I’m supposed to open the store today, and the last thing I need is to be late. I hop out of bed and get my little coffeepot going. Coffee. I definitely need coffee. I grab my standard uniform of black pants and plain blouse and head into the bathroom. Twenty minutes later, I’ve got my wet hair pulled up into a loose bun at the back of my head, I’m dressed in my coat, and I have my travel mug of precious coffee clutched in my hand.
I yank my door open and step outside. The sun is out, but it’s still cold. The forecast called for slightly warmer weather today, so that’s cheering. Maybe some of the snow will melt—that thought also brings a smile to my face. I pull the door shut with a tug and lock up. As I move around the corner, my mind is on the night before—my date.
“I’ve got to be more myself on Friday. Maybe I should have a little liquid courage before he picks me up?” Just as I’m about to pass the side of my house, I see it. S-L-U-T. The word slut is spray-painted in bright red on the side of the house. It’s actually painted next to one of my three basement windows. I gasp, thinking about those footsteps I heard last night. Someone spray-painted the wall as I lay in bed, just a few feet away.
I stop and stare at the red letters. “What should I do?” I say aloud. Should I call the police? What am I thinking? In this neighborhood? The word slut painted on a wall is so far removed from the worst things people tag on walls in this neighborhood, I almost laugh at the thought. Could that really be directed at me? I know it’s not about my neighbor, the sixty-year-old retired male librarian. But, if it is about me, it’s so wrong. Sam is literally the first guy I’ve ever had in my place except for Pops. Well, Blake’s been here before, but that doesn’t count. Sam is the firstdateI’ve ever brought home. I’m not a slut. Far from it. So why did someone write that on my wall? I feel a shiver run down my spine and out through my fingers. Someone was watching through my window. They saw Sam and me in my home. They werewatching.
I snap a couple pictures of the wall, but I have no time to deal with the rude word painted on my house, so I rush out the gate to the bus stop. I can’t be late for work. Once I get on the bus, I start to think it through. I don’t know a soul who would write that about me. My mind races through the list of people I interact with at work and socially, and it comes up blank. Maybeit was Frederick? He did call me that word on New Year’s Eve. I pulled out my phone to text Lauren.
Me: Hey, is your cousin Fred around?
Lauren:Why? You don’t need a date, do you?
Me:Just curious.
Lauren:I’ll text my aunt. Back with you shortly.
I hold my phone and stare at the screen, hoping her message pops up before my bus reaches the stop. Luck is on my side.
Lauren:He’s in St. Barts with his douchebag frat buddies. When will that guy grow up? Frat buddies at his age? Jesus.
Shit. That rules him out.
Me: Do you know when he left?
Lauren:Hang on.
The bus comes to a stop. I grab my bag and clutch my phone in my hand. By the time I’m off the bus and ready to cross the street, my phone dings.
Lauren: He’s been gone for five days. He’ll be back in two more days. Want me to tell him to call you?
Me:No, please don’t. Just curious about something. I’ll tell you about it later.
Damn. That rules out Frederick. I really didn’t think it was him. He’s got a life. Sort of.
Lauren: Fine. Later, babe.
Me: Later.
I head into the mall and up the escalator. I race into the shop, knowing I’m late, but only by a few minutes. Theresa is already opening the register. She smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. Dang it. She’s not happy with me. “Sorry,” I mutter. I throw my coat and purse into the back room and pick up the glass cleaner and paper towels. I start cleaning the cases furthest away from her. No reason to poke the bear, as they say.
