“Stalk you?” He chuckles as he shoves his hands into his pockets. “I’m not stalking you, Love. And I’m the last person to ever need a Valentine.”
“Then why were you justmagicallyat that bar last night, hitting on me, and how are youhereright now when I never even gave you my name?”
The man pushes off against the door frame, taking several steps toward me, and—yes!—my fingers connect with the pepper spray at last. “Aha!” I shriek, fisting the canister of pepper spray and pointing it squarely at him.
“Hey, now, take it easy…” he says, putting his hands up.
Bad move, bucko.Why don’t men understand that telling a woman to calm down is a surefire way to make her do the opposite?
“Answer the question, Fonzie, or I’m gonna let this thing rip,” I say through gritted teeth.
He takes a small step back, his chin retreating into his neck as if I’d slapped him. “Fonzie?”
I can’t be sure, but he seems hurt by this comparison, which is extremely weird for a stalker to be concerned with when he’s in the middle of, well…stalking. We’re both still for a moment before the man drops his hand to the collar of his jacket, shrugs twice, and looks me in the eye.
“James Dean.”
“Uh, what?” My pepper spray-wielding arm drops half an inch.
“My look. It’s supposed to be reminiscent of James Dean. Not Fonzie.” He pulls at his jacket cuffs, one at a time. “You know, the whole rebel-without-a-cause thing. It’s classic.”
What’s…happening.
Dumbfounded, my arm drops another half inch. My mouth drops along with it.
“You don’t really think I look like Fonzie, do you?” he continues. And, strangely, he looks entirely too concerned that I answer this question correctly. Then he takes another step in my direction, and I remember that this man is anintruder, he is athreat, no matter how much he resembles a beloved American icon—and it really is a toss-up between Fonzie and James Dean, now that he mentions it.
“Don’t get any closer,” I tell him. “I have a black belt, and Iwillkick your ass.”
That stops him in his tracks. But instead of looking scared, he looks amused. He grins a genuine, big, blinding grin and stops at the edge of the desk, which is now the only thing separating us in my small office. “Ooh,” he says in a low voice, leaning to place both hands on the desk’s surface. “If you keep talking to me like that, Love, I might fall in love with you.”
And with a deft flick of his wrist, the pepper spray I’ve been holding onto for dear life flies out of my grasp and hits the far wall of the room.
“Now, Felicity,” the man looks at me with a smile, “have a seat.” He gestures to my abandoned office chair. “We need to talk.”
I stare at my empty hand, then at the spot where the pepper spray landed.What the hell just happened?
“Who the hell are you?” I snap, plopping down with a scowl. “And what do you want with me?”
“Think of me as a—” he looks around before snapping his fingers. “A messenger.”
I roll my eyes, already tired of this. “Can you cut it with the dramatics, Fonzie, and just get to the point?”
He looks at me sidelong, lips lifted in a smirk. “So you’re just always a bit feisty, huh?”
Now it’s my turn to flinch. He’s far from the only person to give me that tidbit of unsolicited feedback. And even though I don’t know this guy, it still hurts to have one of your insecurities thrown in your face by a stranger.
“I like it,” he adds, casually.
Oh. That’s new.
Taking a deep breath, I try to let a sense of calm wash over me. It doesn’t work, of course, but at least I can say I tried. I make another attempt to reason withhim—to get answers.
“Please, stranger,sir,” I begin. “If you wouldn’t mind telling me,sir, why you’re stalking me and holding me against my will,pretty please?”
He scoffs and sits down in the chair across from me. “I’m not holding you hostage, Felicity. You can leave whenever. It’s not like I have you in handcuffs. But I have to admit I like the sound of you begging.”
My face flushes at his flagrant flirting, and my traitorous stomach has the nerve to do a little flip.
