Fuck me, this is confusing. As well as really god-damned ridiculous. I know my jealousy is absurd, but I can’t help it. It really felt like she was talking to me about another man. The person she’s excited to go out with again feels likesomeone else.I hate that she’s excited about someone else.
But I just learned—well, re-learned—a valuable lesson about Madison. I can’t push too hard or I’ll activate brat mode and she’ll do the opposite of what I say simply because I had the audacity to try to tell her what to do. It’s infuriating, and I love it, but being on the receiving end does require some patience.
And I am patient. Well, about most things. Getting my hands on Madison seems to bethe exception.
I’m taking you out. I’ve already planned it, so don’t say no.
It takes her a moment to respond.
Did anyone ever tell you how hot it is when you take charge like that? Because it is. Ridiculously.
I’ll be thinking about you all night.
I groan and stare down at the camera in my hand. After Mac’s taunting, I thought more about it and decided to take them out. It feels different now to watch her without her knowledge—not wrong; too damn right. But the invasion of privacy somehow seems more sinister, given how badly I crave her and the history we have that she isn’t aware of.
My plan was to leave a bug or two, because I can justify that for her safety—cameras aren’t strictly necessary. Plus, I’m nearby. I’m watching through the windows of my van and on the tapped cameras on the street. No one goes in or out of this building without me knowing.
But after that naughty little text? Will she be thinking about me later… in bed? With that vibrator in her top drawer?
The tracking app dings, so I know she’s on her way back from her visit with her grandmother. Time to go. Abandoning all deliberation, I carefully place the camera back, ensuring the angle will see the entire room. On my way out, I give her cat a scratch behind the ear that he leans into with a heavy purr, and grab the prop clipboard for my cable tech disguise.
As I open the door, I hear, “Caution! Wide load!” and a human-approximation of a lorry’s beeping sound.
With a curious frown, I step into the hallway. There’s a bloke waiting—her neighbor, I think… Terry? Tom?—eyes fixed on Madison’s door, leaning casually against his own and wearing a cruel smirk. He’s got a small pile of mail tucked under his arm, like he’s just returned from his box.
When he sees me, his brows shoot up and his arms slacken, falling to his sides. “Oh, uh… my bad, man.”
“What?” I frown, confused.
“I thought you were... Never mind. You’re, uh…” his eyes trail down over the uniform and clipboard. “The cable guy?”
Realization dawns, sending ice through my veins. He thought I was Madison. Was he… comparing her to the size of a lorry? Must have been. So, he was waiting here for her, just to be an arse and say something mean. And judging from the practiced delivery and smarmy grin, he’s done this before.
From what I’ve seen in their limited hallway interactions from the hacked security cameras, Madison doesn’t like him very much. The insults he slings at her are enough to tempt me to violence. Luckily for him, she doesn’t seem to need me to intervene—she holds her own. It filled me with pride watching her destroy him so effortlessly before our date. And that was even before I realized she was my mermaid. I hate a bully as much as anyone else, but I’d have been content to sit back and let her handle it.
But then this dickhead went and waited in his fucking doorway to insultmylovely girl.
Anger rises in my throat; I’m practically choked by it. My fingers grip the edges of my clipboard so hard it nearly snaps in my grip as I glare. I say nothing for a few seconds, and the silence hangs between us. His awkwardness turns to nervousness, which crystallizes into a prideful kind of shame that has him rubbing the back of his neck and looking away.
“Yeah, so… I’m thinking of switching services—”
“I’m not the cable guy,” I say, stone-faced. It sounds like a threat. Itisa threat.
He falls back a half-step. “Oh, you’re, uh…withMadison?” he asks incredulously, eyes scanning my biceps and tattoos.
Her name on his lips sends me spiraling.
Mine. Fuck off.
The urge to punch him in those stupid fucking perfect American teeth is almost too strong to control. He’s a handsome enough prick, I’ll give him that, but I’d like his face a lot more if it was pulp under my boot.
“And what if I am?” I challenge. “It’sTodd, right?”
His eyes widen at my low, combative tone. For a second, I watch the emotions play out as he cycles through fear, anger, curiosity and lands right back on apprehension. Smarter than he looks, then. He straightens against the closed doorof his apartment, mail nearly slipping from beneath his arm. I don’t normally let my size speak for me, but I’m not a small man. I’ve got about three inches and 40 pounds of muscle on this dickhead—obviously he’s only tough enough to go after people smaller than him. Like Madison.
And that makes the anger burn even hotter.
“Whoa, hey man. I got no beef with you.”
