And I couldn’t let that go.
I’d never had a reason to stalk a woman before.
But Lacey Grace Oakley was a contradiction.
She’d struck a nerve I didn’t know I had. I wasn’t the type of person to give two shits about another person’s feelings. I was transactional. Everyone and everything was assessed accordingto the potential value—or threat—they might carry. I kept my world black and white.
She was the first woman in years who made me want to see in color.
And maybe—if I could get close enough to her—I could figure out why the hell a girl like that made a man like me want to see things differently.
Or maybe I’d drag her into my grayscale world and watch her fade.
Either way—I was here for it.
She waved to the girl beside her and then veered south, slipping into the current of foot traffic headed toward 8th. I pushed off the wall and fell in behind her, staying just close enough not to lose sight of that crown of golden locks.
Shops crowded the block—a corner deli, a pharmacy, one of those overpriced matcha bars. It wasn’t a straight shot to her place on 47th, but close enough. She wasn’t wandering—she had a route.
Block by block, I tracked her from the shadows, never more than half a dozen car lengths behind. She didn’t notice; she was constantly looking at her phone and dodging people on the sidewalk. Then her steps slowed. Her spine stiffened. She glanced over her shoulder—twice.
Not enough to see me.
But she had good instincts—could sense that someone was watching her.
Without missing a beat, she darted across the street, forcing a cabbie to slam on his brakes, which earned her a screaming car horn and the guy’s middle finger. Her sudden detour was anything but casual.
She glanced over her shoulder again, more slowly this time, like she was scanning faces and not just checking traffic. Then she picked up her pace, crossed against the next light, andcut into a building that wrapped around the corner. Smart. If she suspected she was being followed, this was a good way to confirm it—abrupt changes in direction, sharp angles, unpredictable movement.
I slipped into a bodega across the street, where I could see both sides of the building, and waited.
She didn’t come back out immediately.
Ten minutes passed before she emerged from the side entrance, her expression tense, her eyes sweeping the sidewalk. She paused there, searching—really searching. She even turned in a full circle, as though she expected someone to be standing right behind her. When she saw no one out of the ordinary, she resumed walking, more slowly now, like she didn’t fully believe she’d lost whoever was on her tail.
She hadn’t.
Two blocks later, she stopped again. This time, her movements were more natural. Her face relaxed as she approached a building with a sandwich board out front that read:
THE PERFORMER’S LOFT. Dance. Voice. Acting.
I scanned the place as she pushed open a door with fliers taped to its glass panes. This appeared to be one of those rehearsal spaces where you paid by the hour and spent half of it talking to people who were just as broke as you were. No agents. No egos. Just battered toe shoes and a place to work on your craft.
An hour later, she came back out smiling.
A tall, willowy guy held the door open for her. His posture was that of a ballet instructor. He had half a jewelry store adorning his fingers and a theatrical grin spread across his face. She beamed at him. Talked. Laughed. Bit her lip in that way I was learning she did when she was amused and trying not to show it. The way she looked at him got under my skin.
After saying goodbye to the guy, she turned west again, walked two more blocks, and slipped into a small store with pink trim and a sign lettered in gold script: Beneath the Covers.Romance-only, judging by the window displays. From where I stood outside, I could see black bookshelves and a mural behind the front counter that read: Happy Endings Sold Here.
I waited a minute, then followed her in.
Inside, the air was warm, fragrant with sandalwood-scented candles and freshly brewed coffee. She was already near the back. Didn’t browse. Didn’t hesitate. She’d apparently come with a title in mind.
I stayed out of her line of sight, keeping to the inner wall opposite the windows, then slipping into a gap between two center shelves labeled Enemies to Lovers and Touch Her and Die. The layout of the place worked to my advantage. Tall bookcases ran perpendicular to the storefront, creating plenty of blind spots. Most of the customers were wandering around near the front table displays. I lingered between the shelves, crouching to pull out a random paperback in case anyone glanced over.
Within just a couple of minutes, she had picked out her book, paid in cash, and thanked the woman behind the counter.
I caught the title as she turned:Her Soul to Keep.
