Clearly, the alcohol is doing little to keep my mind off the one guy I shouldn’t be thinking about right now.
My shoulders tingle, and a shiver runs through me. I glance toward Bates’s table, finding his eyes already glued to me. And that’s the way they stay until the event comes to an end and he heads out of the door with his friends.
When I get home, I greet my fur baby, Freddie. Then I climb into bed and reach over to my nightstand, pulling out my vibrator. And I absolutely, one hundred percentdon’tget off, thinking about some stupid, arrogant, freckled hockey player.
Valentine’s Day has been my favorite holiday for as long as I can remember. I used to say I was born with a love for love, yet cursed with failed relationships year after year. Maybe that was my destiny—to help others find their happily ever after while fearing that I’d never find mine.
But this year is going to be different. Itisdifferent. Because ofhim. He appeared out of nowhere, determined to win my heart despite my understandable reservations.
Since January 1, I’ve woken up to discover a valentine taped to my front door—beautiful, handmade cards with even prettier words written inside, just for me. Admittedly, at first, the details and depth of the letters made me think that my mystery person was my best friend and business partner, Kerrigan Taylor, because a few weeksbefore the first card appeared, she had made me fill out a questionnaire about my dream significant other—the same one our clients fill out when they come to Bound-to-Be, our professional matchmaking company.
She nearly fell out of her chair when I accused her of being my secret admirer. Not because she had left them and been caught red-handed, but because she was happy for me, and wanted all the details. Immediately, I looped her in, showing her the stack of love letters I’d accumulated, and with each one, her eyes widened with awe.
I should probably be creeped out by the notes and the thought of a stranger bringing valentines to my home, but … I’m not.
Whenever I open a card up, it’s like wrapping every inch of my body around a live wire, warming me to the core in a way I’ve never experienced before.
Would that make me the first person to die in a scary movie? Yeah, absolutely. One hundred percent. Let’s just hope my guy is more of a fan of horror erotica than stabby, stalker horror.
Besides, I have a door camera, like every other single woman who lives alone, on both my front and back doors, and even though my cameras always record his visits, I’ve never seen his face.
He always parks out of view, always has an oversize hood up, always wears a creepy burgundy leather mask with red heart eyes, and never drives past my house before or after his stop.
On occasion, other people have delivered the letters, some wearing his mask, and some that looked to beunmarked delivery drivers. I could tell from their walk and demeanor; they’re different fromhim.
I’ve come to memorize the actual man who consistently visits me, so when someone new shows up, they stand out like a sore thumb, especially because they’re maskless.
But it’s only happened a handful of times, and I assumed he was busy during those days and couldn’t manage to get away.
From the footage, there are a few things that I’m sure of. My guy is tall, like well over six feet tall. He’s muscular as hell—clear as day by how he fills his clothes out; even the baggy sweatshirts do little to hide his wide frame.
The most recent discovery—and by far the best—was hearing his voice for the first time during his last visit when he whispered into the camera, “Hi, Serena.”
These combined things do little to warn me away. If anything, it’s like I’m starving and can only feed on his attention.
Is it a societal problem that attractiveness makes someone trigger our fight-or-flight in different ways than someone we find unattractive? Yes, because the level of danger hiding beneath the surface has nothing to do with the appearance on the outside. But here I am, falling victim to my desires anyway.
All I know is that no one has ever done something like this for me before, and as crazy as it is, I really hope it’s not ending.
Then came the other surprises—a shoveled driveway, garbage set out at my curb on collection day, and flowersand presents on my doorstep. But then he got more comfortable, leaving his giftsinsidemy house.
I have no clue how he’s getting in, but every time he does, my cameras go out for a second, completely shutting down. He always enters through my garage, never the front door.
Based on the rabbit hole of research I fell down when trying to figure out how he was doing it, I’m guessing he has some kind of jammer for the cameras and a universal control or flipper device for the garage. But even that leads me to more questions, like how he’s getting inside the second door.
More and more, he’s becoming a living ghost in my life. I’ll come home from work to find laundry washed, dried, and folded on my bed. He’s even stocked my mini fridge full of Red Bull—my favorite energy drink. He’s gone as far as cleaning my bathroom—something my ex, whom I lived with for three years, never did once.
He can’t be all that bad, right?
I’ve considered calling the police countless times. Ishouldcontact them, like a sane person would. But my hovering thumb can never follow through, no matter how hard I try.
There’s a part of me that doesn’t want to scare him away, that doesn’t want anything to change. Even if he vanishes, I would never be the same.
He’s changed something inside of me, altered my chemistry somehow, and there’s no going back to the Serena Rafferty I was before.
I’ve become a new version of myself that I didn’tknow existed until this man popped up in my life. Now, I don’t quite know what my day looks like without him.
While we’ve never spoken or even touched, I feel closer to him than I ever have with my past partners, and my secret admirer has yet to hurt me in the same way they once did.
