My Masked Valentine:I’m well aware
My Masked Valentine: Back to the gala. Who are you going with? What’s it for?
I thought you knew everything
My Masked Valentine: I can find out. Trust me. I was just hoping you might save me the work
Hmm …
He goes silent for a moment, and my heart starts to sink that my attitude may have scared him off, but he responds after a few minutes.
My Masked Valentine: You’re going with your dad to the Saint Paul Sinners charity gala. Tomorrow. 7 p.m. He’s picking you up.
Jesus Christ, how did you figure that out so quickly?
My Masked Valentine: Are we answering questions now or should I evade that one like you did to mine?
Fair play
Creep
My Masked Valentine: you are just begging for it today, aren’t you?
no comment
My Masked Valentine: Get a dress for the gala?
I did. You’d love it. It’s red. Well, more like a deep burgundy, but still
My Masked Valentine: Now you’re just torturing me on purpose.
My Masked Valentine: I know you’re going to look so beautiful. Send me pictures when you’re ready.
I will <3
I’m exhausted by the time I get home, a little after five p.m. The day wasn’t overly hard or stressful, but I’m just drained by the time I shut the front door behind me.
I lower Freddie to the ground, and he trots off on his own, on a mission of some sort as he heads into the kitchen with purpose, his nose to the ground.
I kick my boots off and hang my coat and purse up, a shiver running through my shoulders because of the drastic temperature change, going from the chilly winter outside to my warm abode.
February is setting some cold records this month. As much as I love the coziness of the snow, I’m excited for it to start warming up a little bit.
A yawn takes all my remaining energy as I lazily stride upstairs, my legs dragging beneath me. I turn into my room and flick my light on.
Uneasiness raises the hair on the back of my neck, and it takes me a moment to register the sensation. Something’s different here.
There was a basket of laundry by my bed that I needed to put away. But it’s definitely not there now. The basket’s in the corner, empty, and I immediately know who the culprit is.
Thank you, Mystery Man.
There are totally pros to having a stalker—at least my stalker. Laundry done, dishes done, occasional clean house, warm vehicle … I could go on. A girl could get used to this princess treatment.
The one downfall is selling your privacy and sanity because if I didn’t know about the masked man who watches me, I would totally gaslight myself into thinking it was some weird ghost, obsessed with cleaning my house.
But instead of believing in the supernatural, I believe that this unknown man only wants what’s good for me when he breaks into my home.
If you had repeated that sentence to me a month ago, I would’ve laughed and said I’d prefer the ghost. The similarities between the two don’t elude me.
