It’s him.
Mall Man.
Here.
In my fucking playground.
The way he stares. Like I’m already naked, already bent, already his.
It should terrify me.
It doesn’t.
It makes me wet and furious in the same heartbeat.
My nipples go traitor, demanding his tongue, his teeth, anything he’ll give.
“Did you get my picture?” The question slides out calm, confident, obscene.
I open my mouth. Nothing comes out.
Juliet Lovelace, professional lunatic, speechless in the cereal aisle.
He shelves the box he never wanted. Leans in just enough that I smell musk and gunpowder.
“My gift,” he says, lips barely moving. “Your move, Juliet.”
Then he smiles. A lethal little thing. Smug as hell and walks away.
Motherfucker.
Gorgeous.
Reckless.
Mine.
I stand there clenching a box of Cookie Crisp so hard the cardboard threatens to surrender.
I pull up my phone.
Open the picture I absolutely didn’t worry my men with.
The one of me at the farmer’s market.
He was there?
He was that close?
Gift?
What fucking gift?
I toss the cereal in the cart. And hurry toward checkout.
He’s gone.
Third time I’ve seen him.
