15 - My Personal Stalkers
Cordelia
I stare in utter disbelief at the idiot next to me. He’s sitting there, bold as brass, in a clean white shirt and a pair of fitted black trousers.
“What the hell are you doing here?” I demand through gritted teeth, eyes flitting around the salon to check who’s watching. Thanks to the reputation these guys uphold, that would be everyone.
Clarke shrugs, not a care in the world. “Thought I’d get a man - icure. Heard this place does a good job.”
The dickhead winks at me, slow and deliberate.
And even though I’m aware he’s taunting me, there’s a tiny flutter in my belly.
It’s clear Clarke knows he’s attractive in the way he holds himself, strutting around like the world owes him a standing ovation.
And he is; if you like the brooding, ostentatious, darkly twisted type. Definitely not for me.
“You followed me,” I growl. It’s not a question, it’s a fact. Why else would he be here?
“Following is for amateurs, Cor,” he drawls, still smiling. “I prefer stalked.”
I inhale a deep breath, tearing my gaze from him, because if I don’t, I may scream out of pure frustration. It’s obvious Logan has set this up. He’s pissed off that I’m refusing to talk to him so he’s using other means to monitor me and get under my skin.
As I exhale, my eyes skim across the salon space.
There’s a bum on every available seat, and three other ladies sitting on the leather chaise lounge in the small reception area.
I’ve only been here a few times since we moved, but it’s always busy.
And it’s easy to tell why; the staff do an excellent job and their rapport with the customers is unmatched.
A funky pop song filters through the speaker system, mixing with the whirl of hairdryers and muffled chatter.
One of the nail technicians further along the row is bobbing to the beat as she uses thin brush strokes to create art on the tiny canvas.
Behind her, shelves hold every shade of polish imaginable and then some, arranged in perfect colour order.
The precision makes me smile. The artistic black shelving is a strong contrast to the pale pink glitter smattering the walls, catching the sun’s rays through the huge shop window.
“Afternoon, mon Cherie,” Clarke swoons, dragging my attention back to him. A girl with cute pigtails sits down behind the desk opposite him. The poor thing is young, and her cheeks turn scarlet when she sees how good-looking he is.
Clarke, unruffled by her shame, lifts his large hands onto the armrest, whilst throwing me a sly smile.
Oh God, he’s fucking serious.
The urge to face plant is compelling, but the nail techs got me trapped.
“So…you and Logan.”
“There is nothing between us.”
“Uh-hmm.” I know his next words will piss me off. Mainly because anything that comes out of this guy’s mouth tends to. With a mocking wiggle of his thick brows, he says. “That little bun you’re cooking says otherwise.”
“Shut the hell up,” I seethe, back going ramrod straight, as every muscle I possess turns to lead. Mama comes to this same salon to get her nails and hair done. She can’t find out, not yet. If it were up to me, she never would. It will only lead to disappointment.
Clarke throws his head back and laughs, raising a few eyebrows. One of the nail techs further up the line giggles, enjoying the drama. The girl doing my nails peers up at me, her painted lips a flat line.
“Please, you need to relax.”
“Sorry,” I mumble, waggling my fingers around, trying to relieve the tension.
“Yeah, Cordelia,” Clarke drags out the words, a devilish grin plastered across his lips. “Relax.”
I shoot him a death glare. He just smiles wider, thriving off my impending meltdown. I close my eyes, take another deep breath in, and release, allowing my tight muscles to sag. What I wouldn’t give for another of Logan’s shoulder massages.
No! Don’t think about that loser either.
“How long do you plan on keeping this hush-hush, Cor?” Clarke continues to prod. “I mean you’re lit up like a glow-worm over here.”
“I am not,” I snap back, eyes turning to slits. “It’s just the ring light.”
He scoffs. The nail tech leans back in her chair, tapping my hand, and I’m about to apologise a second time when she says.
“Matte or gloss topcoat?”
I blink at her. I’m one step away from internal combustion and she wants to talk about topcoat?
“Gloss,” I mumble before turning back to Clarke. “Why did you actually come here?”
“Thought you might need a friend.” And I can’t help it; I snort. The noise is hideous. I don’t need any psychopathic murderers in my friendship circle, thank you. “One that’s not father-of-the-baby territory,” he adds.
“Shh!” I snatch my hand away and press my finger to my lips. Then apologise to the girl whose hazel eyes grow round in shock when the open bottle of polish nearly topples over.
“He put you up to this, right?”
“Nope,” he replies, popping the p. “There isn’t anything I won’t do for my friends, Cordelia.”
I stare at him for a second longer. Those dark eyes; fierce and unblinking. The intensity of his gaze forces me to look away. If I squirm in the seat, people will think I’ve got a problem. Even though I do. It’s called Logan Cox.
After Clarke leaves, I can’t help but wonder what exactly he means by anything.
After my ruined appointment at the salon yesterday, Casey invited me for dinner at a local bistro.
Casey. Yes, as in Logan’s ex-girlfriend.
Weird, right? But I’m not racking up the numbers in the friend’s department over here, especially after sleeping with Knightsbridge’s most eligible bachelor.
I dread to think what they’d say when they discover he’s put a baby inside me.
I’ve already received enough anonymous hate mail to start a very pitiful scrapbook.
Casey and I sit at a round table with a candle in the middle.
I find myself mesmerised watching the ivory wax dribble down the length of the tall structure to collect on a small silver platter below.
Next to us, a large window overlooks the bright city lights of central London.
The typical British weather keeps patrons wrapped up in their houses on a night like this.
That’s not to say the restaurant isn’t warm.
It is. And cosy. With a soft instrumental piece playing in the background, adding to the elegant ambiance overall.
She sits across from me with a bright smile. She’s a natural beauty, with big brown eyes the colour of melting chocolate, and plump cupid’s bow lips. The subtle eyeshadow and blush accentuate her angelic features perfectly.
“What are you having to eat?” She smiles over the top of her menu.
My eyes fall to the card in my hands, scanning over the various dishes available. Making decisions isn’t my forte; especially when I don’t want to eat anything in the first place.
“I’m not that hungry,” I say hurriedly, keeping my eyes pinned on the fancy text to avoid her disapproving stare. I’m not entirely convinced that Logan hasn’t asked her to meet with me purely so he can keep an eye on me from a distance.
The waitress saunters over, in her colourful pinafore and cherry-red kitten heels. Casey orders the chateaubriand off the specials board. And the waitress scrunches up her nose when I sheepishly ask for a side of fries, stomping off back to the kitchen.
“Just fries?” Casey questions dubiously, curling her fingers over the menu I’m attempting to hide behind. “You need to look after yourself better. Otherwise, you know who will start making a fuss.”
She raises a shapely eyebrow and winks. I choose to ignore that remark, throwing her a nervous smile instead.
“Congratulations on your engagement,” I blurt out, eager to keep the subject of conversation away from myself. I gesture to her ring, a flawless diamond solitaire sparkling like drops of starlight on her long finger. “Have you started planning the big day yet?”
“Thank you,” she beams, cheeks pinking under the awash of gold light cascading down on our heads. “We’ve booked the venue. This stunning fairytale castle near Dublin. It’s even got a moat around it!”
“Dublin? As in…Ireland?”
She giggles, her dimples adding a touch of innocence to her face. “Yes. My fiancé, Tomas, moved here with his family when he was younger. It’s important to him we get married back home. Plus, his family is huge—it makes more sense than trekking them all over here for the day.”
Shrugging, she takes a sip of her pink cosmopolitan. Her dark eyes seek mine over the rim of the glass, and she wiggles her eyebrows suggestively. “Soo, you and Logan.”
“There’s nothing between him and me,” I reply, a little too quickly and with far too much contempt. My fingers wrap around the neck of my glass. The mocktail slides down my throat, submerging my tongue in a blissful concoction of sweet and sour.
Casey’s eyebrows dance again. “Oh, there is definitely something between the two of you,” she chuckles, gaze flitting pointedly beneath the table.
My cheeks turn scarlet.
“He told you!” I whisper-shout, restraining myself from striking the table with my palms. Sweat gathers on my brow. Not a good look.
“Well, I sort of coaxed it out of him. But don’t worry,” she grins, grasping my hand. Hers is slight in comparison, with elegant fingers that would make her the ideal candidate for modelling jewellery. She squeezes it before saying softly. “Your secret’s safe with me.”
The wood grain on the table becomes the most fascinating thing in the room as I try to conceal my awkwardness.
Her skin fills me with warmth. Everything about this girl is.
She’s beautiful; inside and out. I can tell that, despite only having just met her properly today.
Apparently, she was at the party at the Luciano residence, but I can’t recall seeing her.
Then again, I was under the heavy influence of alcohol.
“Logan is sweet, genuine, and fiercely protective,” she says, drawing her hand back to sweep the platinum bangs behind her ear. “You could do a lot worse.”