I let go of it, opening and closing my hands into fists while fighting with my curiosity. The boy’s words play in my mind, so I know that whatever it is, is from Easton. No one else will pay a kid one hundred dollars to drop a box off and jet. Not when the shipping services are so much cheaper. And not when he could just walk down here himself.
Suddenly my mouth goes dry in anticipation. Sweat slicks my skin, and all the sound around me fades into the distance. My mind races flooded with guesses of what is inside and why he sent it.
Recalling back to that night, seeing how badly he and his brother had beaten that man, I think the worst. What if it’s a leg or an arm? Some fucked-up psychological message to remind me to keep my mouth closed?
No, that can’t be it.
He seems smug and as if he has money to blow, but no idiot would send bloody body parts in expensive velvet boxes.
Looking it over once more, I find the courage I need to get it over with. Otherwise, I’ll be taunted by its presence. But I bet that’s what he wants. To get in my head, teach me that while he may have let me go that night, he’s only a few shops away.
I suck air into my lungs, swallowing the last of my fear, mentally telling myself I can handle whatever this is. White tissue paper ruffles when I open the top, parts of it waving from the sudden shift of air around it. Slowly, I peel it back one flap at a time until I’m met with the sight of what’s inside.
I gasp, taking in the deep-green material, immediately recognizing it as a dress. The fabric is soft under my fingertips, the tail of it falling to the floor after I lift it from its packaging. Bringing it to me, I bunch it against my chest while using my free hand to search for a note.
I never find one.
After a moment I give up searching and refocus on the dress. It’s beautiful and ironically, my favorite color. Forest green. How’d he know? I think to myself, but the question quickly fades. My phone rings, breaking my concentration. I fish it out of my bag, nearly dropping it because I can’t stop staring at the dress. I take in the tag on the inside flap, shock radiating through me when I realize it’s my exact size.
I peel my gaze away to read the number dancing across my cell’s screen. It’s not one I recognize so I hesitantly answer it and bring it to my ear. “Hello?” I say as more of a question.
“How do you like the dress? I took a guess with the shoes, hopefully they fit.”
It takes me no time to place the voice. It’s him—Easton.
“Are you there, amore?” he quizzes.
I clear my throat and lean against the counter for support. “H-how did you get my number?”
He chuckles. A subtle sound that rings loudly despite the fact it’s barely audible. “The question you should be asking is what time you should be ready tonight,” he says firmly.
I blink several times, an attempt to chase the words that have suddenly left me. He shouldn’t have this effect on me. No one does. I’m not one who takes direction all that well, my father and the decision to move here can attest to that. Yet, for some reason, I want to do what he says.
“I’ll be working tonight,” I add as a mock effort of remaining in control. It’s useless. I knew from the moment I met him in front of my store that I’d lost; it was solidified the night I witnessed what I had.
I can hear the smile on his lips. “Eight o’clock.”
I open my mouth to speak, but he continues before I can.
“And I’d prefer you wear your hair up.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t need anything in the way when I’m ready to taste your flesh.”
Greer walks in, her presence giving me the escape I need.
“I have to go,” I blurt and end the call, not waiting around for him to object.
She cranes her neck once she notices the box and bag on the counter. “Ooo, what’s this?”
“Nothing,” I snap and hurriedly stuff the dress back into the box.
She squints at me, and I can tell she doesn’t believe me. “Mm. Doesn’t look like nothing.”
I quickly grab the items and rush toward the office in the back to get them out of sight. We have a long day ahead, and I’ll never get through it if I have to stare at them.
“They didn’t have the Southwest Asian salad, so I got the Caesar,” she yells so that I can hear from the office.
“Thank you.” The words come out muffled beneath the deep breath I take.
“No problem.”
She’s emptying the takeout bag as I return, her eyes immediately finding mine when I step back behind the register.
“So are you going to tell me what that’s about?” Greer darts her gaze between me and her salad as she removes the lid.
“What?” I play coy.
She wiggles her brows toward the back room.
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, I don’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.