Page 23 of Meet Cute the Virgin

Not at me. At another profile. Another man.

I’ll kill him.

I could find him in thirty seconds, have his address in two minutes, and make him disappear before morning. The thought arrives fully formed, practical and completely insane. Then I remember none of them are real. I have fully lost my mind at this point.

Me:I think about you more than I should.

I stare at the words. Real. But I delete them. Type something else.

Me:Bangs are underrated. Most people don’t have the bone structure to pull them off.

Send.

She reads it. Her smile fades and shifts into something more complicated. Fuck me. Finally, she types back before she can second-guess herself.

Lily:Are you flirting with me or my hair?

I smile. I miss that mouth of hers.

Me:Both. The hair is a package deal with the person.

Cheesy as all hell, but she smiles, the real one that crinkles her eyes, her chin tilting slightly down. I could get used to these sorts of reactions from her. I like seeing her like this, without her guard up. A side she rarely showed me.

Lily:Smooth. How about you tell me more about yourself? Isn’t that what we’re supposed to do on these things?

I pause. How far am I going to take this? The lie that has to hold.

Me:Security consulting.

True enough. She doesn’t know how true.

Lily:Like a private investigator?

Me:Like someone who doesn’t stop until he gets what he wants.

I hit send before I can delete it. When I read it back, I realize how creepy that sounds.

She stares at the message for a long time. Too long. Then finally she responds.

Lily:Nothing wrong with determination.

This is far past determination. This is obsession.

Me:I’ll keep that in mind.

She’s all but telling me to do this. There is nothing wrong with it.

I simply sit here and watch her. She stares at her phone for another minute before tossing it onto the bed and getting up and stretching.

She moves to the bathroom, the door following half closed. How bad would it be if I put a camera in there? Not to be creepy but for safety. The bathroom is statistically one of the most dangerous rooms in a home. What if she falls? The place is too big for her to scream and anyone there to hear her.

I watch the shadows move back and forth on the floor, spilling out from the bathroom. She’s getting ready for bed. When I hear the shower turn on, I feel a surge of anxiety.

I force myself to breathe, to count, to remember that patience is a weapon I’ve always wielded better than anyone. It doesn’t work.

I’m like an addict, and I’ve let myself get too close now. It doesn’t help sate me; it only fuels it.

She’s right there. Two hundred yards through the forest, across the eastern wall, and up the service stairs to the second floor. I mapped every step. I know how the staff moves around and when they settle in or leave. Roland, the butler, helps make that easy, keeping the house running on a tight schedule.