Ever since that moment in that damn warehouse, he's been following me around. And although I could've said something to Luna and solved this situation months ago, he's never actually done anything inappropriate.
Every other time I've confronted him about waiting outside my office, he's had some story ready. A business meeting a block away, errands nearby. I'm curious what he'll spin this time.
I wish my stomach wouldn't twist itself into knots as I study his face. Because the head of the Polish mafia might be a walking red flag, but damn it, he's also exactly my type. Tall, not too broad, messy hair, tattoos licking up his neck and arms, chain around his throat, warm brown eyes…and a mouth that could—
No. No mouth, Roxy. You don't think about his mouth.
"I missed you," he says with a roguish grin, sipping from his cup. His face instantly contorts in disgust. "What the hell is this?"
"Chamomile tea."
"Why would you give me this?" He sniffs it suspiciously.
"So you can finally calm down and leave me alone." I press my palm lightly to his chest and flutter my lashes at him.
His gaze drops to where my hand rests. Before I realize my mistake, his palm covers mine, trapping it against his chest.
"I knew you were crazy about me, Roxanne. But you don't have to be shy. Touch whatever you want, as much as you want, anywhere you want."
The way he says it makes my throat tighten. Low, rough, honest. And the scary part is he probably means it. What's worse? I want to take him up on it.
But he's a mafia leader for fuck’s sake. And, apparently, my stalker. A bad stalker, sure, but a stalker nonetheless.
"I know they just let you out of the psych ward," I shoot back, "but did you at least take your meds, Damien?"
"My therapist says I don't need medication," he replies, his voice a shade softer. Just vulnerable enough to make me feel like I've hit something raw.
And now I feel like an asshole.
The fact that this man, who radiates mental hospital on steroids, actually goes to therapy twists my chest in a way I don't want to think about.
I pull my hand away. Time to change the subject. I don't need to know him. He's just another man chasing a pretty face for a few months before moving on to his next obsession.
"What do you want from me, Damien?" I can't hide the exhaustion in my voice.
He studies me for a long beat, then his hand drifts to the base of my throat, coaxing my chin up to meet his eyes.
"Simple," he says. "I want you. A house. As many kids as you want but at least two. No cats. I'm allergic. You seem like a Rottweiler person anyway."
I blink.Excuse me?
House? Kids? Minimum two?
Breaking free, I back away. "In your dreams, Damien. And stop following me. Or at least do it better. It's not fun having a stalker I can spot every time."
His grin turns smug. "I knew you loved having me around. Don't worry, baby. I'll hide better."
I shake my head, biting the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. I'm about fifty feet away when his voice carries down the street. “I always make my dreams come true, Roxanne!”
Something tightens in my chest. It's absurd that I could be anyone's dream. Words are easy. If he wants me to believe it, he'll have to prove it.
Thirty-five minutes later, I finally make it to the church. Simona's pacing outside with the correct bouquet in hand, looking ready to faint. She knows as well as I do that one wrong detail can mean a hysterical bride and a scathing review.
"Sorry, Roxy," she says, genuinely apologetic.
"I believe you. Just…be more careful next time."
I take the flowers and walk into the cathedral. Iris isn't here yet. I spot the bride's mother wearing every shade of green known to man and the groom's younger brother, Xander, pacing near the altar.
