2. Zoe
CHAPTER 2
Zoe
TWO MONTHS LATER
Silver: What did you bring for lunch today?
I glance down at the text, unable to stop the smile spreading over my face. I can’t help it, anytime he texts—which has been every day since I texted him back a month and a half ago—I get this undeniable giddy feeling. It’s ridiculous, especially since we still don’t know each other’s real names, but it’s fun .
Me: I actually forgot to pack one today.
I settle back into my office chair, grinning at my phone like I’m a teenager all over again. I have a few minutes before my next meeting, and I’m more than happy to spend it chatting with him.
Silver: You usually pack epic snack boxes. I can’t believe you forgot.
Silver: Of course, if you told me your real name, I could bring lunch to you.
A flush rakes over my skin at the suggestion. It wouldn’t be the first time during our casual, daily texting that he’s brought it up. Part of me is dying to meet the real man behind the silver mask who’d given me the best sex of my life two months ago.
The other part?
Terrified.
What if we meet in the real world—no nightclub, no masks, no phone protecting our identities—and I fall short? What if he doesn’t live up to the fantasy he’s helped build in my mind? First with the incredible masked sex and second with the cute, flirty texts every day? Isn’t it better to live in the fantasy?
Me: I don’t know…what if you like ‘masked me’ and ‘texting me’ better than the actual me?
I send the text quickly before I can chicken out and delete the question I’ve wanted to ask every time he’s brought up meeting in person.
Silver: That’s not a possibility, kitten. I know the real woman behind the mask. I got very acquainted with her that night at the club.
I bite my lip, heat spilling into my veins as the memory plays in my mind. I can almost feel him sliding between my thighs, his mask firmly in place as he thrusts into me with expert moves that turned me liquid.
Me: What are you doing for lunch today?
I text back, wanting to shift us to the easier ground we usually dance on.
Silver: I made tacos last night. Brought the rest for lunch.
Me: Sounds fun. Big day ahead?
Silver: Just one meeting in an hour. You?
Me: I have a meeting…shit, now. Got to go. Talk tonight?
Silver: I’ll be here, kitten.
A warm shiver races down my spine at the declaration, and I smile while switching my phone to do-not-disturb. I head across my office, opening my door just in time to see my one o’clock heading toward me.
“Hi, Dad,” I say, giving him a quick, light hug so I don’t wrinkle his suit.
“Hi, sweetheart,” he says, following me into his office.
He takes a seat in one of the chairs across from my desk, and I elect to sit in the one next to him instead of going behind my desk. He's certainly not a patient, but this meeting had been scheduled by his assistant.
He fiddles with something in his hand, and it draws my attention. The white envelope and red handwriting scrawled across it is familiar. My body goes cold, my eyes widening as I look at my dad.
“Yeah,” he says, disappointment edged into his features as he passes me the envelope. “One of my guys spotted it on your windshield when we got here.” He shakes his head. “What is this now? The fourth letter?”
I take a deep breath, doing my best to quell the adrenaline pumping through me.
“The fifth,” I say, cringing slightly because I hadn't told him about the one I found taped to my office door last week.
I slide my finger beneath the lip of the envelope, cracking it open even though I know what will be inside.
You shouldn't have ended things between us. I know you regret your decision. I watch you every day and every night just waiting for the moment you'll come to your senses and invite me back into your life. Until then, know that I'm watching you.
I read the note twice before folding it back into the envelope and passing it back to my dad.
“More of the same?” he asks, tossing the letter onto my desk.
“Yep,” I answer. “I was hoping my lack of response to all of his cues for attention would make his obsession fizzle out.”
“It clearly hasn't,” Dad says. “How long has it been since you discontinued him as a patient?”
“Five weeks,” I answer, blowing out of breath.
Spencer Joel had been my patient for a year before his attentions turned obsessive in the last three months I treated him. He'd never shown any signs of ailments that would’ve pointed to obsessive tendencies, which is why I’d been so surprised when it started happening.
After he crossed professional boundaries—showing up to my office before and after closing, asking for coffee dates with little regard for my polite and professional declines, I had to make the tough decision to refer him to another therapist.
When I told him in person, he'd taken the news in stride, but two days later he’d shown up outside of my office, a dozen roses in his hand and a desperation clinging to his features that had my red flag radar popping off. I kindly asked him to stop showing up to my office and to respect my boundaries, and that’s when the letters started.
And the amount of notes were increasing, showing up on my car and in my mailbox since he'd somehow tracked down my home address.
“I had my assistant schedule this meeting today because I wanted some solid, uninterrupted time with you to discuss this. I know how busy you are, but I’m worried about you,” Dad says.
“Not because you missed me?” I ask, desperately trying to lighten the mood.
“Don't do that,” he says, smiling at me softly. “You know I always miss you. And we have that dinner next weekend. But I wanted to talk to you as soon as I could. You know I'm up for reelection,” he continues, shifting in the chair next to me. “And with that comes a whole slew of concerns and puts the stalker situation at the top of my list.”
I sigh. My father has been a South Carolina senator for the past six years. His campaign’s only just begun, and if the media gets word that I have a stalker, they’ll ensure the topic is nightly news for the foreseeable future.
“I definitely don’t want this to mess with your campaign.”
“This isn't about my campaign,” he says. “This is about your safety. Being in the political hot seat doesn’t just make me a target, but those I love and who are closest to me as well. Namely you . Which gives me double reasons to get a security detail on you.”
“Dad, we've talked about this,” I say. “The last thing I want is a bodyguard following me around.”
“You're right, we did talk about it,” he says. “When I first ran for senator, and you had no clear threats against you. It doesn't matter that this dangerous situation didn’t result from somebody with a vendetta against me or my policies. A threat is a threat.” He points to the envelope on my desk, and I mentally visualize the other four nestled in the bottom drawer. “And he’s hand delivering these messages. What happens when leaving a letter for you isn’t enough?” His brow furrows. “And the police still aren't doing anything about it?”
“They can't do anything about it that, Dad,” I explain.
One of my patients-turned-friend, Anne, is engaged to one of Sweet Water’s finest police officers, Jim Harlowe. Because of that connection, Jim met with me several times, looking over the notes and the somewhat grainy footage I had from the cameras that covered the front of my practice.
“There's no probable cause to issue an order of protection,” I continue. “Spencer hasn't posed a physical threat to me yet. The judge won't approve the order just because I say the guy is bothering me, and I'm not going to use your political standing to get them to issue one either. I tell Jim about every single letter I get, and he always comes out. Jim even went to Spencer’s last known residence to tell him to back off, but he no longer lives there, and no one has a record of where he's staying. It's not the police department's fault.”
“I understand that,” Dad says. “You're not their daughter. You're mine. And the last thing I want is something happening to you because I didn't help.”
“ Dad ,” I chide but he waves me off.
“Would it be so bad to have someone with the skills and wherewithal to sense and spot danger before it gets too close? Honestly, it's not like I'd hire six people to be on you at all times. I'm just asking for you to let me have one person. My team has already set up a meeting with one of their top private contractors. They assure me he’s the absolute best, just a little rough around the edges. But personally, I think that's exactly what you need. Maybe seeing a tough guy around here and escorting you home every night will deter this asshole. Make leaving notes and watching you at all times more trouble than it's worth.”
I let the idea sink in, doing my best to sort out my emotional reactions to the situation versus the logical ones.
“Zoe,” he says before I can respond. “You spend your days helping people. Your brilliant mind gives others peace and that’s an admirable thing that shouldn't be ruined by one bad client. You need to worry about your own safety and take care of yourself so you can keep taking care of others.”
“When you put it that way...” I sigh. “All right,” I say, unable to argue with that logic. “But it won't be forever, right?”
“Of course not,” he says. “It’ll only be for as long as it needs to be. I'll set up the contract for six months, and we'll reassess at the end of that. Hopefully this business is handled well before then.”
Six months.
Six months of having someone follow me around day and night? I’m no stranger to having the paparazzi spot me and my father coming out of a restaurant, looking for something to stir up an otherwise slow news day, but having a constant presence around me? Somebody hired for the sole purpose of protecting me? That’s a new concept, and I’m not exactly sure how to prepare for that.
“We'll have to discuss his schedule,” I say. “And where he'll be when I'm treating clients. The last thing I need is someone scaring my patients.” I was hoping I wouldn’t have to tell my patients about this situation, but if I have a full time guard here, there will be questions. I’ll have to explain the reasoning behind it. I mentally make a note to add that to my to-do list.
The thought of them pausing or stopping their treatment because of this situation worries me. I’ll totally understand, but my heart sinks just thinking about them not feeling safe here. Once again, anger bubbles to the surface at the position Spencer is putting me in.
“Of course,” Dad says. “I’ll ensure he has all the information during our meeting today. I’ll emphasize how critical it is that your patients feel comfortable and safe and not like they're going to be interrogated or intimidated.”
“Thank you,” I say, truly meaning it. “It’ll be a relief to not have to constantly worry about Spencer coming through the door.”
“I would’ve done it sooner if you had let me,” Dad says. “And the offer still stands to move back in with me for however long you need.”
“I know,” I say. “But you know I love my home. I’ve worked hard for it and I have plants to take care of.” I smile at him. “And it’s a little unnerving to think about having someone always watching over you, not to mention I have no idea how my patients are going to feel. Have you gotten used to it?” I ask, knowing his two security details are standing just outside my office.
“I don't know if you get used to it,” he answers. “But you certainly form trusting relationships with those invested in protecting you. Are there times I wish I could go out without worrying about being harassed or attacked because of my position? Absolutely. Would I take the risk without them? Never.”
Dad slides out of his chair, and I follow him to the front of my building, giving him another hug. “I appreciate all you do for me,” I say, truly meaning it.
“And I appreciate you for all you do,” he says. “As long as the meeting goes well today, I'll have him show up before opening tomorrow.”
“Sounds good,” I say, nodding to his two guards before they head out of the building.
I walk back into my office, settling into the chair behind my desk, noting I have twenty minutes before my next appointment. I do some breathing exercises, trying like hell to calm the nerves that the envelope I’ve now thrown into the drawer with the others has caused. I hate how on edge I've been since this situation started, unable to hear my door open without holding my breath until I see who's walking through it.
I'm in the middle of another deep breath when my phone rings, and I smile as I pick it up.
“Luna,” I say by way of answer. “How are you?”
“I'm good, I was calling to check on you. I just drove by on my way to the shop and saw your dad and his security guys outside? Something going on?”
I laugh. “Nothing gets by you, does it?”
“Not in Sweet Water,” she answers.
“Everything's fine,” I say. “Dad just finally convinced me to let him hire a security detail for me.”
“Oh, I'm so relieved,” she says. “I know you were conflicted about it, but until this guy has decidedly backed off, I think we'll all be a little more comfortable knowing a trained professional is watching out for you.”
“I know,” I say. “I feel incredibly privileged to be in the position to have something like this. There are countless other people in the same situation as mine who can't. It feels unfair somehow.”
“That's so not fair to you,” Luna says. “Even though I totally get where you're coming from. If we could, we’d help every single person who’s in the same situation. Don't you think they’d take the extra help if someone offered it to them?”
I tilt my head. “Well, probably.”
“ Definitely ,” she says. “So, you shouldn't feel guilty about accepting your dad’s help. And who knows, maybe this guy will be able to sort this out quickly and then you can go back to being your normal, introverted self,” she teases, bringing the conversation back to a lighter mood. “Well, introverted unless you're wearing a mask and partying at a nightclub.”
I smile and shake my head. “That was a one-time thing.”
“Says the woman who texts her mystery man every single day but refuses to meet him in person.”
“Not refusing,” I say. “I'm simply simmering in the anticipation. Because who knows, the second we officially meet, all of this amazing chemistry could go right out the window. And then I wouldn't have these fun, flirty texts to look forward to every day.”
“Or you could end up falling for the masked man who blew your mind on the roof of a club two months ago and live happily ever after.”
I laugh. “You're all about happily ever after now that you've secured your own,” I tease. “How is Brad?”
“Brad is fantastic,” she answers in a sing-song voice. “And can you blame me for wanting the same level of happiness for you?”
“I love you,” I say. “I have to prep for my next patient.”
“I love you too,” she returns the gesture. “Let me know when you meet the security guy, I want all the deets. And if Silver texts you tonight, I want to hear about that too!”
“Will do.”
We hang up, and I chuckle softly to myself at her enthusiasm for my mystery man. I have to admit it’s getting harder and harder to come up with logical excuses not to meet him every time he brings it up. Especially when a simple text from him brings me such daily joy.
But with everything going on—an ex-patient stalker and a new security detail coming tomorrow—striking up a relationship, even a casual one, with someone I haven't been able to stop thinking about for two months seems like the definition of biting off more than I can chew.
And that night, Silver definitely proved he was one big bite.