Still, the feeling of eyes on me, all over me, persists as I walk the few short feet to the front door of my building.
Someone is out there. Watching. Waiting.
26
SALINGER
The next day, a gaggle of interns is gathered in one of the conference rooms when I get done talking with Dara about the Harborview Heights project. Mandy is in the middle of them, giving some sort of lecture on how to use a Crock-Pot.
“It really is the best barbecue-chicken recipe. Whenever I make it, everyone in my apartment building always stops to ask me what that delicious smell is,” she’s telling them.
“It’s a sacrilege to cook barbecue in a Crock-Pot,” I announce.
Several of the interns scream when they notice me in the doorway.
“Seriously?” Mandy glares at me. “Salinger, they’re on their break.”
“A break?” I cross my arms.
“This is the adulting club. They’re learning life skills,” Mandy saysprimly.
“Youare teaching them how to adult? Your life is a disaster.”
“Someone needs to teach them how to cook. ‘Be the change you want to see in the world.’ You don’t want any of these boys to get a girlfriend and force her to be their mom, do you?”
“No, what you want to do,” I tell the interns, “is make a shit ton of money so you can hire a private chef, and you’re not going to get that kind of money by tossing raw chicken and store-brand barbecue sauce into a Crock-Pot.”
“I have gotten you plenty of investing information by taking a nice home-cooked meal to someone. Serve this chicken, dish it with some homemade potato salad.” She addresses the interns, who are no longer listening but are instead quivering in fear. “Also, some chocolate-fudge cake. That will be the next club lesson.”
The interns cower as I lean on the doorframe.
“Ugh, fine,” she says. “Salinger, get away from the door so they can leave.”
One kid is slowly sidling around the table.
I pin him with my gaze. “You’re still here, donut boy?”
He dives for the door.
Once we’re alone, I inspect Mandy. She doesn’t look as if she’s been harmed. In fact, she looks amazing.
Mandy smooths her palms over her dress. It’s dark blue and structured, and it hugs her curves. It’s got this little cutout right at her cleavage. Her hair frames her face softly. She looks kissable and fuckable.
I tear my eyes away from her chest. “Why”—my voice sounds harsh to my ears—“are you dressed up?”
Her brown eyes widen. She fusses with her collar. I’ve seen women do that move on purpose. Usually, it alsoinvolves lots of hands over their chest. But Mandy’s just doing it absently. With her cherry-red lipstick, in that dress with the little oval cutout at the line of her cleavage, it’s like she’s just begging me to put my cock there and fuck her tits right here on the conference table in front of everyone.
“I wanted to look nice for…” She hesitates.
I pounce. “Tell me. It’s the stalker, isn’t it? Something’s happened.” My hands are at her waist.
“No,” she stammers.
“What?” The length of her body is pressed against mine.
“Aaron is coming over,” she gasps out.
The gears of my brain grind to a halt. “Aaron? You dressed up for Aaron fucking Richmond?”
