After waiting an ungodly amount of time for the school day to end, I follow the Volvo from Northwood Elementary’s parking lot, maintaining a careful distance of three cars between us as Chloe drives toward the center of town. Realization dawns when she turns onto a road leading to a sprawling open-air farmers market.
Of course a kindergarten teacher would spend her time off among a bunch of patchouli-smelling hippies selling organic produce and homemade jams.
I park my black Audi next to her ancient vehicle.
This outing just switched from surveillance to target acquisition.
While the diamonds are my objective, this woman is the pathway to obtaining them. I have to fold myself into her world so that I can sharpen my search for what belongs to Roman Kozlov.
The market sprawls across a public parking lot. Instead of cars, a maze of rainbow canopies and wooden stalls line the pavement. Farmers hawk wares and shout greetings to relaxed shoppers as I scan the area.
Four main walkways. Multiple exit points. Moderate crowd density.
Not ideal, but manageable.
The scene is quintessential Americana. Couples with strollers and yappy dogs, old men in suspenders, hipsters examiningheirloom tomatoes.
And Chloe D. from Northwood Elementary.
She’s impossible to miss, a sunbeam in a yellow midi dress that flutters around her calves. Her hair is gathered into a loose ponytail, exposing the curve of her neck. The afternoon sun shines on her smooth, creamy skin, like a tease or a promise.
Frowning, I remind myself of the mission.
She gushes about zinnias to an elderly seller, gesturing animatedly at the vibrant orange blooms. Her voice leeches into my mind like a warm blanket on a winter night.
I suppress a shiver.
Her affability is cozy and inviting. Still, I won’t allow her to distract me.
I remain at the periphery, observing.
Even outside of the classroom, she embodies the essence of a schoolteacher. Everything about her radiates calculated yet genuine warmth, like she’s performing a role she was born to play.
She drifts to a strawberry stand, examining the big juicy fruit with serious concentration.
Red like her mouth.
I immediately banish that thought. She’s not here for my amusement. She’s a target.
This is work. Not fun.
Her lips part as she selects a sample, and I find myself captivated when she bites into the strawberry. Her tongue flicks out to catch a juice droplet threatening to spill.
Soft. Pink. Delicate.
Her eyelashes flutter as she savors the flavor.
I’d like to give that tongue something else to lick. Find out if her pussy is just as…
I shake my head. Why the hell am I reacting like a teenager? It hasn’t been that long since I last fucked a woman. A…blond? Redhead? I don’t remember, but she was more than adequate, performing the services I paid for in a willing and respectful manner.
So why do thoughts of this teacher invade my mind so intrusively?
Time to complete this assignment and return to my real life and the roster of women seeking the same thing I am. A release with no strings attached.
And, more importantly, no connection to my work.
She spins around and spots me.
