I shake my head then stuff a piece of the dinner roll that comes with our food into my mouth to avoid answering her.
Frankly,Idon’t even know what that’s about.
* * *
The rest of the day seems drag by, taunting me while sending my nerves into a frenzy. Every few minutes I’d check my phone, thinking he’d say something else by now, but he hasn’t.
Once I make it to the door of my apartment, I unlock it and step inside. I’m met with the smell of warm vanilla, and it instantly eases the tension in my shoulders. I figured I would come home, get ready, then head back to the bookstore. But something tells me if he knows my dress size, phone number, and favorite color, then he probably knows my address, too.
I mean, that’s how men like him work, right? Instead of asking or maybe trying to get to know someone, they take what they want. They have people on retainer to track down anyone they show interest in. At least that’s how it is in books.
I sigh and roll my eyes as I set my keys on the counter. “This isn’t a fucking romance novel, Arloe,” I tell myself. “This is straight-up stalker shit.”
I thought maybe if I let the words slip from my mouth, I would believe them. Maybe I could talk some sense into myself, but it doesn’t work. I’m more infatuated with Easton now than I was before. I know I should keep my guard up, keep him at a distance, and make sure I’m safe, but all of that seems irrelevant when I think about him.
I’ve been chasing nonexistent men for years. Yearning for that dark, possessive kind of attraction that doesn’t let you go. The type you read in books, but that’s the issue. It’s fiction. Those types of men don’t exist.
Or do they?
I shake away my thoughts and walk into my bedroom. After laying the bag and box that was delivered to me on my bed, I strip out of my dusty clothes and leave them in a pile on the floor. If my father were here, he’d burst a blood vessel. Clean and tidy is the way he likes to live, and early on in life, I learned that is one of the quickest ways to annoy him. He isn’t even here, yet I leave my mess in spite of him anyway.
The day has been long and exhausting. Between all of the administrative work and dealing with another busy day of readers coming in for Tatum’s newest release, I’m spent. All I want to do is shower and crawl under my covers with a new read. But then I take in the box and remember my call with Easton.
I have half a mind to ignore his request, shut off my phone, and call it a night. But then I find myself eager to know what’s on his agenda. I hate that he already has this effect on me. And I also hate that I like it.
I pad into my bathroom to start my shower. Staring at myself in the mirror, I put my hair up to be sure it doesn’t get wet. Soon steam fills the space, and I step into the stream, a soft moan leaving my lips the moment the hot water touches my body. My moment is short-lived, though. If I’m going to be on time to meet Easton, I’ll need to be quick. So, I hastily scrub every inch of my body, rinse, and snatch the fluffy towel hanging on the loop next to the tub.
The difference in temperature in my room from the bathroom sends a shiver down my spine. Goosebumps form on my skin, but I ignore it as I glide over to my dresser and pull out a pair of black lace panties. Unfortunately, the dress Easton picked out isn’t ideal for a bra, so I guess I’ll be going without one.
I toss the panties on my pillow and remove the dress from its box for the second time today. The dark-green material almost shines in comparison to my white comforter under it when I stretch it out on my bed. It’s long and will probably drag my short five-foot-three frame, but seeing as it’s my exact size, I know the material will wrap my body snuggly.
I finally open the bag I didn’t bother to check and see another box inside. No doubt it’s the shoes Easton mentioned. I extract it and lift the lid to reveal gold strappy heels. When I flip them over, the number six is etched into the soles.
“Good guess, Mr. Stalker,” I mutter.
Letting the shoes fall to the floor gently, I continue getting ready. I moisturize my skin from top to bottom, slip on my panties, then shimmy into the dress.I was right.It touches the floor, but it’s not bad. It’s almost whimsical, in a Cinderella type of way. It’s one of those one shoulder, mermaid tail dresses with a slit that travels all the way up my right leg, stopping right below my hip. The green color seems to make my pale skin glow, too.
I adjust the top, making sure my girls are in place. I don’t have much in that department, and what I do have sits up nicely on their own. It’s a good thing, too, because with the way the single strap falls midway down my arm, there isn’t much support. But it’s still snug and hugs me in all the right places, just like I knew it would.
Finally, I slip my feet into the heels and buckle them around my ankles. I step back into my bathroom to look at my reflection. The only thing that doesn’t fit is my hair. It’s still up in a messy bun from my quick shower, and I know he said to leave it up, but what’s the fun in listening?
I remove the hair tie, run my fingers over my scalp, and shake out the loose waves. My brown locks fall to my shoulders effortlessly. A smirk pulls at the corners of my lips at the realization that I’m disobeying his request.
Satisfied with myself, I turn and head toward the front of my apartment, stopping briefly to grab my keys and to check my phone for the time. It’s seven-thirty, which means I’ll be late getting back to the store to meet him, but oh well, he can wait since he made me wait for three days.
Grabbing the wristlet hanging on its hook by my entrance, I stuff my phone inside then pull open my door. I’m instantly taken aback, a nervous wave sweeping across my body.
There he is, standing on the outside of my home. He rakes his eyes over me, his gaze dark with a twinge of disapproval lingering on his features. I didn’t expect to see him here, but if I’m honest, it isn’t in the least bit surprising.
“Your hair isn’t up, amore,” he says authoritatively.
Chapter Six
Arloe
My throat swells around the lump that forms there. It’s massive, choking the life out of me. At least that’s what it feels like. I knew he’d have my address, yet I still can’t breathe seeing him in front of me. His gaze is dark and laced with a mixture of things.
Anger?
