His dark gaze locks onto my car with unerring precision. Like he sensed me. Like he was waiting.
Or he simply recognized my car. Duh. He did change my tire. I need to stop acting like such a weirdo.
I climb out of the Volvo on unsteady legs.
His dark eyes stay fixed on me as I approach. No wave. No smile. Just that undeviating focus. In this bustling suburban setting, his unnatural stillness creates a black hole around which minivans and soccer moms unknowingly orbit.
“Hi!”Too perky. Way too perky.“This is a coincidence.”
Bree was right. He’s definitely stalking me. There’s an intense, menacing air about him.
I usually avoid men like him at all costs.
“No, it’s not.” He lifts an eyebrow, cocking his head to the side in a predatory way that tingles my nerves. “You asked me to come. But you didn’t say when, so I’ve been waiting. Maybe it was a different kind of coming you were asking for?”
The memory slaps me. A hazy, alcohol-fueled ramble about glitter glue and Hobby Hut. My face warms as embarrassment floods through me.
Iinvited him.I practically asked him on a date. And here I am thinking he’s some sort of creep. What’s wrong with me?
“Oh, right. I did, didn’t I? And yes, I did mean for you to join me here, to shop. With me. Not the…other thing.”
“You did.” A corner of his mouth lifts slightly, a micro expression that cascades a wave of heat through my belly. “To carry heavy items again, I believe you said.”
“Right. Yes. Heavy items.”Smooth.I fidget with the strap of my bag. “You changed my tire.” The statement hangs between us, loaded with unasked questions.
He nods, an economical gesture that barely shifts the air.
“Why?” I need to understand something—anything—about this man who keeps appearing in my life in unexpected ways.
He shrugs one broad shoulder. “Changing tires can be hard if you lack experience.”
I search his face for hidden meaning, for the catch, for whatever he’s not saying. “That’s it? The whole reason? Nothing else.”
He nods again, face impassive.
How does he stay so quiet all the time? “Were you raised on a film set for Westerns?” The question slips out before I can stop myself, a nervous joke to fill the silence.
And then—miracle of miracles—he laughs. His eyes widen, as if my reaction surprises him too. “Silent films, actually.”
For just a second, his eyes twinkle with amusement.
The knot in my gut eases.
This is normal. We’re just two people on a sort-of date, talking. Maybe I’ve been overthinking everything.
I grab a cart, my hands clumsy and clammy under his scrutiny. A wheel snags on the metal corral, and the whole thing twists sideways, threatening to tip.
Kolya’s unwavering hand covers mine on the handle. The other settles on the cart, stopping its momentum with effortless control.
“I’ve got it.” He takes the cart from me.
Inside, the store buzzes with the usual weekend chaos. Harried moms with craft lists, retirees browsing yarn aisles, teenagers clustered around the model section.
Kolya pushes the cart with unnerving grace, his presence creating a silent, intense bubble. He doesn’t belong here, all dark and jagged in a store of bright colors and softness. Like a butcher knife in a drawer of spoons.
Yet every time I reach for a shelf, he’s beside me.
His knuckles graze mine as he plucks a bag of googly eyes from my grasp and places it in the cart. His palm settles briefly at the small of my back to guide me past a traffic jam of strollers, the heat of his skin burning through my thin blouse.
