No.
I’m wondering how I ended up involved with someone like Echo.
Less than twenty-four hours ago, I was straddling Echo in my bedroom. Grinding against him like I was trying to fuse our bodies together. Moaning into his mouth while his hands gripped my ass.
And then, as if that wasn’t bad enough, I flashed him. I pulled my robe open and showed him my tits just because he asked me to. Not to mention what I did after he left.
What the hell is wrong with me?
I squeeze my eyes shut and press my fingers against my temples. This is exactly why I let Fallon drag me to the grocery store. I need normal and mundane. I need to pick a pasta and make dinner and pretend like I didn’t almost come on my stalker’s lap less than twelve hours ago.
I shift the basket on my arm and stare at the shelves in front of me without really seeing them. There are too many options, and my brain is too frazzled to commit to any of them. With the thoughts of what happened with Echo constantly circling, I don’t have the bandwidth to think about anything else.
Fallon disappeared down the frozen foods aisle a minute ago with a dramatic announcement about feening for some ice cream, but I didn’t go with her. I needed to be alone and just think for a little while.
My phone buzzes with an incoming text from Echo.
What are you up to?
I shouldn’t respond, but I do anyway.
Shopping, why?
The response comes immediately.
Not sure if I’d consider staring at the same shelf for two minutes shopping. Tell me, Bambi, are you thinking about me?
My eyes snap up, scanning the aisle frantically. He isn’t anywhere in sight. There’s just a woman comparing sauce jars and an elderly man reaching for a box of linguine.
Are you in here somewhere?
Answer my question first, then I’ll answer yours.
I’m not thinking about anything. I was just dazing off.
That’s a shame. Because I’ve been thinking about you. About how you tasted and how you sounded when you whimpered my name. How wet you were when you?—
I lock the screen and shove my phone so hard into my pocket that I almost drop my basket. My face is on fire. And heat is already pooling between my thighs.
This is bad.
This is so fucking bad.
I’m halfway through a mental argument with myself about whether I should leave when a familiar voice cuts through my thoughts.
“Dahlia?”
My spine stiffens.
I recognize that voice.
Josh.
I turn slowly, as if delaying the moment will somehow make it easier to deal with.
Josh stands at the end of the aisle, one hand tucked into the pocket of his jacket, the other holding a carton of almond milk. His smile is tentative and hopeful in a way that makes me feel awful.
“I thought I saw your car out there.” He says, noddingvaguely toward the front of the store. “I wasn’t sure if it was you.”
