Chapter 8
Eight
NOAH
Every stalker needs a mask.
At least, according to the majority of the dark romance books the librarian stacked in my arms. How else can a stalker conceal his identity from the woman he loves? Now I just need to figure out which one to get.
My parents love Summer. Far more than they ever liked Naomi. Though that’s not exactly much of an achievement, considering no one in my family liked Naomi. In fact, I’m certain my parents have never liked anyone that my siblings and I have brought home as much as they like Summer.
Too bad she’s putting on an act. It’s impossible to know how much of what she said during dinner last night was true. All I know is she was damn convincing with all her stories, smiles, and giggles.
As she chatted with my parents about her work, all I could picture was Summer surrounded by loose sheets of notebook paper, paint streaking her hands, legs crossed beneath a gloriously thin dress, big glasses over her round brown eyes, dark blonde hair falling in waves to barely conceal her nipples, the top of her dress unbuttoned to display her cleavage, stacks of books surrounding her for inspiration, and lips pouty as I approached her.
Images powerful enough to keep me glued to my chair so no one at that table saw the evidence of my fantasies.
But I don’t want to get to know the fake Summer—I want to get to know the real one.
Apparently, that means I need to become a hacker.
Every stalker in her favorite books seems to have a knack for it, so how hard can it be?
Maybe I’ll finally figure out how to get back into the social media account I haven’t been able to access since I was fifteen and delete all the humiliating photos before Summer stumbles onto them.
While I jog past an indie bookstore, I peer through the window. Past all of the displays of the latest bestsellers and the booksellers’ hand-picked favorites, a tall figure hunches over a large stack of books on the table, his face concealed by a mask.
What the hell?
I push through the door. At his side, a brunette chatters while he signs the books, and she pulls each hardcover from the stack as he signs them with a flourish.
A shorter woman with mahogany brown hair and fierce blue eyes sits in one of the chairs, feet propped on another while she reads through a copy of the hardcover.
“Excuse me.” I nod at the author, who seems intent on signing the books as fast as possible. “Where did you—”
“The signing hasn’t started yet,” the short woman cuts in without bothering to look up from her book.
“Briar, be nice.” The woman managing the stack of books smiles at me. “I’m S.T. Nicholson’s personal assistant, Mack. Are you here for a signed copy?”
“Um, yes.” Lying seems like the best course of action. I’m pretty sure Briar will have me kicked out if I say otherwise. “And I was wondering: where did you get that mask?”
Before S.T. Nicholson can answer, Briar peers up at me long enough to quirk an irritated brow. “He had it custom-made.”
“Oh.” Damn, how much would a custom mask cost? “Where did you—”
“There’s a costume store a couple of blocks down.” Briar rolls her eyes and returns to her book, already tired of my shit.
Mack flashes me an apologetic smile. “It’s not far. I’m sure they would do something custom for you, if that’s what you’re looking for.”
“What the fuck.” Briar glares at the page before directing her glower at the author. “Was a knife to the eye socket really necessary?"
S.T. Nicholson gives a low chuckle as he continues scrawling his signature. “It gets worse.”
Sounds like Summer’s kind of book. Her taste in books is so opposite to her personality, it’s almost comical.
“Here.” Mack holds out a copy to me.
“Thank you.” Before Briar can spoil the rest of the story, I pay for the signed copy and head out the door.
Emblazoned across the cover are the words: New York Times Bestselling Author S.T.
Nicholson. On the back cover flap, his author photo shows him in the same mask.
Summer will love to have a copy signed by the author.
I follow Mack’s directions until I reach a costume store a couple of blocks down. A sign in the window advertises the shop as men’s lingerie.
Sounds like exactly the place I’m looking for.
Inside, the scent in the air is a combination of plastic, latex, and pumpkin. Dozens of masks line the walls. Some goofy, some mildly creepy, and most downright terrifying.
There are too many options. How do I know which one she’ll be into? I should’ve done more research before I came here. But I can’t ask Summer which mask I should wear to stalk her, and it’s not like she has a collection of masks awaiting her future stalker-husband.
I call Aries, Killian, and Vee, all three of their faces popping up on my phone screen. Vee is on the elliptical, not a sign of sweat on her face or a hair out of place. Aries is lying with an enormous hardcover open across his chest, and Killian is bleary-eyed in bed like he just woke up.
“I need your input. Which mask should I get?”
Vee rolls her eyes and groans. “Don’t involve me in this.”
Her screen goes black before disappearing. So much for getting a woman’s perspective.
“Not sure I need to know this much about you, man.” Aries’s thick brows furrow. “Your kinks are where I draw the line.”
“What if they’re my girlfriend’s kinks?”
“Then I definitely don’t want to know.” He hangs up.
Leaving only Killian examining the wall of masks in front of me. He rubs at his eyes before clearing his throat, voice hoarse from sleep. “My advice? Get them all.”
For a woman who claims to want to be stalked, Summer is making it pretty difficult. Some days, she’s up at six, others nine. She has no routine—no consistent meal times or bedtime or TV time. How am I supposed to work with that?
While waiting in my car outside her apartment building, I get claustrophobic behind my mask three times and remove it long enough to calm down and convince my panicked brain that the plastic isn’t enough to suffocate me.
At last, a ten-year-old Honda pulls into a spot at the opposite end of the lot, and the most gorgeous woman I’ve ever seen emerges, shuffling toward the apartment building in a jacket, heels, and a dress that hugs her every curve.
Maybe it’s from the mask concealing my face or from literally stalking her, but a hot pang sears my chest. Reminiscent of how the male characters in her favorite books reacted whenever they saw the woman they loved with another man. Jealousy burns hot as fire. I’m starting to get it now.
I may not have witnessed her on one of her dates, but I’m witnessing the aftermath.
Flashes of her faking a laugh at one of his stupid jokes, flaunting the snug fit of her dress as his jealous ex eyes them up, him entranced by the way her lips move when she talks and curl up when she smiles, his heart pounding harder at the possibility that maybe this connection he feels with her is more real than he thought.
She’s not your real girlfriend. You’re not allowed to be jealous. You knew this was her job.
She’s a professional. I know this. But I’m sure actors aren’t thrilled when they watch their spouse kiss their on-screen love interest either.
I wait until Summer is up the stairs and crossing the landing to her apartment before I emerge, trying to stick to the shadows, but it’s damn near impossible with all these street lamps lighting up the property.
What if she catches me following her? What if she somehow realizes it’s me, even with the mask on? How the hell would I explain that?
From above my head comes a small gasp. I grin. She found my gifts.
Summer’s door shuts behind her, and I slowly make my way up the stairs, cringing with every creak of the boards beneath my feet. Where the hell is the stalker manual on moving silently?
Heart hammering, I sneak toward her door, hoping with every step that she doesn’t fling it open and discover a masked man creeping around her apartment building.
When I reach her door, spotting the window cracked open, I dart past and linger around the corner, flattening my back against the rough brick.
“Prick!” Her voice carries through her open window. Thank god she left it open. From the top, of course. Can’t risk letting any stalkers in. “You’ve got new toys!”
Her voice disappears. She must be giving Prick the plastic ball, stuffed animal, tunnel, and wheel I sent. Every good stalker sends gifts. Wait until she discovers what I got for her.
Summer’s voice crescendos as she heads back into the living room. “—a signed copy of the newest S.T. Nicholson book, that special edition I’ve had on my wishlist for months, a new Kindle, and a bunch of toys for Prick that he’s already obsessed with.”
“Holy shit.” Hazel’s voice crackles over the speaker. “Summer, you know I won’t judge you, so be honest. Did you fuck Noah?”
“No!”
“Then you should.”
“Hazel.”
I grin. Maybe I like Summer’s slightly unhinged, terrifying best friend after all.
But . . . wait. How do they know I sent the gifts? The whole point is for the gifts to come from a mysterious stranger. For her to not know for certain who the benefactor is. She has other clients. Why would she assume it was me? She thought I was some guy named Brad the other day.
Who the fuck is Brad? Fuck Brad.
“Seriously. When’s the last time a man bought you a gift? Let alone everything your heart desires.”