Chapter 7
CHAPTER
SEVEN
Jacob
I jolt awake, the remnants of some half-remembered dream slipping from my grasp. The first thing that hits me is the silence—too damn quiet, like the calm before a storm.
My heart kicks against my chest, a steady thud-thud-thud that feels way too loud in the empty room.
Blinking the sleep from my eyes, I turn my head to glance at the nightstand, and that's when I see it.
My phone.
The cameras.
Wide open, the lenses staring back at me like an accusing eye.
Shit.
Bella. She must've seen it.
Panic coils tight in my gut. I push the sheets off and scramble for my phone, fingers fumbling as I punch in her number. She has to understand—it's not what it seems.
I'm not some creep. I just...God, I just can't get enough of her.
"Come on, Bella, pick up," I mutter under my breath, the phone pressed so hard against my ear it might leave a mark.
Ring after ring, she doesn’t answer, and my stomach sinks lower with each passing second. Voicemail. Her bright, cheery voice grates on my raw nerves. "Hey, this is Bella! Sorry I missed your call?—"
"Damn it," I hiss and end the call before the beep. I try again, because I'm nothing if not persistent, and she has to hear me out. She has to let me explain that watching her was never meant to be creepy—it was admiration, pure and simple. Okay, maybe not so simple. But hell, when she's out there on the tennis court, moving like some kind of fierce, athletic goddess, how could I not want to capture that?
"Answer, answer, answer..." It's a mantra now, a desperate plea into the void.
Still nothing. Just that voicemail greeting, mocking me with its casual indifference.
"Please, Bella," I whisper to the silent room, my voice breaking with the strain of words left unsaid. "Just let me explain."
But there's no response, and the silence swallows me whole.
I park myself outside her apartment, the cold concrete of the steps biting through my jeans. It's late, and the streetlights cast long shadows, setting the stage for the desperation clawing at my insides.
I've texted, called—hell, I'm two seconds away from shouting up to her window like some lovestruck Romeo. But this ain't Shakespeare, and I'm no hero.
"Please, Bella," I mutter, knowing she can't hear me, but hoping somehow the words will reach her through the brick and mortar that separates us. "I need you to hear me out."
My eyes fixate on her window, looking for a sign of life, a flicker of movement— anything .
I imagine her in there, her toned body coiled with tension, those bright brown eyes clouded with confusion and hurt. Shit, what I wouldn't give to explain, to make her see it was never about anything sordid.
The minutes tick by, each one an eternity, each one amplifying the ache that's settled in my chest. My phone buzzes with a reminder from the hospital for tomorrow's early shift, but work is the last thing on my mind. How can I think about broken bones and X-rays when everything that matters is behind these walls, just out of reach?
I call her phone and leave a voicemail. "Come down, Bella. Please." The cool night air carries my plea, worthless and weak. The silence answers back, a resounding confirmation of my fears.
I leave another message. "Dammit, Bella, I'm not leaving until you talk to me." My voice has an edge now, rough with need. Not the need that darkens the soul, but a desperate longing to right a wrong, to fill the spaces between us with truths instead of assumptions.
There's a rustle above, and my heart leaps. Is it her? Has she heard me? But it's just a curtain swaying, a tease of what might be. No face appears, no voice calls down to either end or ignite my hope.
"Fuck." The word slips out, laced with all the frustration of a man who's royally screwed up. I lean back against the steps, my gaze still fixed on her window, willing it to open, willing her to emerge and see me here—raw, exposed, unguarded.
I leave another message. "Talk to me, Bella. Let me make this right."
I don't know how long I sit there, time blurring into a haze of worry and want. All I know is I can't leave, not without seeing her, not without trying to mend the fragile thread I've frayed between us.
I leave another voicemail. "Please," I beg, the word hanging heavy in the still night air. "Please."
Still, she doesn’t acknowledge me.