Chapter Five
Juliet
The bra is hot pink.
Not blush. Not rose. Hot.
The kind of pink that screams fuck me in a foreign language and bites when kissed.
I dangle it by one strap and smile to myself, imagining how Vitaly will react the first time he sees it.
Will he finger the little bows first?
Or will his thumb go straight to my nipple?
Will it be in his bedroom?
Or at the bakery.
Flour still on his hands.
Leaving little white traces on the pink.
I glance at the matching panties.
Adorable bows on the hip straps.
A man like Vitaly would tear those delicate things.
Rip them right off.
Must have.
I pick those up too.
Matching is important.
I’m not a basic bitch who wears silk up top and cotton below.
A prickle races over me.
Not the good, Vitaly’s going to whisper shit in Russian that I don’t understand but speaks directly to my ovaries, kind.
Not the kind I like, where a gaze heats the back of my thighs or curls around my waist like invisible rope.
This one’s… sharp. Icy.
A needle instead of a caress.
I freeze.
Lashes still lowered.
Fingers still brushing lace.
The store hums around me.
Overhead music. A child whining two aisles over. The rustle of hangers.
But beneath it?
Silence. Focus.
Someone watching.
And I wait.
One beat. Two.
That flutter in the chest, the rise of goosebumps along my arms.
It’s not fear.
I don’t scare.
It’s something else.
The math of a moment gone strange.
Someone’s watching me.
I glance up.
Slow. Controlled.
Not dramatic. Not wide-eyed.
Just a tilt of the chin.
Like I’m searching for the sale sign on the back wall.
But I know.
I know.
Someone’s here.
Watching me.
Studying me while I pick panties for another man.
I find him in my periphery.
He’s standing near the jeans rack.
Dark hair. Sharp jaw.
Big shoulders. Broad chest.
Not ridiculous in that models underwear way.
But God.
Intense.
And his hands.
Oh.
Oh fuck.
One holds a hanger, turning a pair of dark wash jeans over.
Checking durability, not style.
Thick knuckles. Scarred. A thin white line across the back of his left hand.
Not trendy. Not ripped. Practical. Solid.
Like the kind of man who owns exactly four pairs of pants and doesn’t give a single shit about what anyone thinks of them.
And the way his fingers grip the denim?
Capable.
That’s the word.
Like they could pin you to a wall.
Unhook your bra without looking.
Make you beg.
He lifts his eyes.
And looks straight at me.
Not a glance. Not a once-over.
A study.
Like I’m a puzzle.
Like he’s already halfway through solving me.
He doesn’t look away.
My stomach does a little flip.
Not the fluttery kind.
The oh-no-I’m-in-trouble kind.
My thighs press together.
Traitors.
Because he’s hot, and focused, and still watching.
Naturally, I start cataloging.
Clothes: practical. Fit-focused. Low vanity. Maybe ex-military. Or a cop.
Posture: alert. Balanced. Ready to move. Doesn’t slouch. Definitely strong.
Shoes: boots. Good leather. Broken-in. He’s been places.
Face: Strong jaw. Needs a shave. Lips that look like they’d feel good on my throat.
Wait, focus.
Expression: neutral, bordering on serious. But not cold.
Build: Thick.
Thick like…
Okay I’m distracted. His shoulders are illegal.
Wait.
He’s still watching.
Oh God.
OH GOD.
He’s not glance-watching.
He’s not flirty-watching.
He’s watching-watching.
Not blinking. Not smirking. Not pretending to do anything else.
Just... watching.
Like I’m the only thing in this store.
And I’m not ready.
I don’t know his favorite color.
I don’t know his patterns.
His tells.
I haven’t studied his socials.
I don’t know if he likes dogs or uses 10-in-1 body wash.
What if he’s in a committed relationship with minimalist decor and only drinks kombucha?
What if…
Oh God.
What if the hot pink bra is wrong for him?
He looks like he’d like black. Or maybe red. Something darker.
More dramatic. More…
What if he chews with his mouth open?
No.
No.
Juliet, pull yourself together.
I can’t approach him. I won’t.
Not until I know.
I put the bra back.
Carefully. Like it’s fine china.
Not because I don’t want it.
God, I do.
It’s perfect. Filthy and sweet.
Just like the thoughts I’ve already had about Vitaly nipping at the fabric.
But because this man?
This man needs to bend me over his lap in that sad little dressing room with the broken lock.
And I can’t think about that until I know him.
Why the fuck is he watching me?
I can’t let him see what underwear I picked before I know him.
Before I’ve done my research.
Before I’m sure pink is the right choice.
What if it’s too much?
What if he sees it and thinks I’m cheap?
Or trying too hard?
What if he likes women in boring beige or tragic lace cut for sadness?
Or worse, granny panties?
Nope.
No.
Not risking it.
I return the panties.
Try not to look at him.
Keep him in my peripheral.
He hasn’t clocked me watching him back.
I think.
Try to smile casually at the mannequin.
Like this is normal.
Like I’m not spiraling.
Try not to think about the heat crawling up the back of my neck.
So fucking attentive.
I run a finger through my hair.
Jesus.
My curls must be a mess from the shower earlier.
Does he like curls?
Fuck, focus.
Walk.
Just walk.
Slow, Juliet.
Slow.
His eyes are still on me.
I feel them. Burning across my spine, down the backs of my knees.
Watching.
Tracking.
Measuring.
I walk too fast.
Abort. Abort. Abort.
Just leave the fucking mall.
The sun greets me, like I didn’t just have a meltdown in the bra section.
I will not have another Callum moment.
These men have to get their shit together.
Let me court them like civilized people should behave.
Stages. Informed. Thoughtful.
Not... whatever the hell just happened.
I head to my car.
Keys already in my hand.
Hell, he could be all manner of things that just won’t fit with us.
I should have got that bra. It was cute.
I didn’t even get the perfume I came for.
By the time I get to the car, my heart’s doing that dumb gallop thing again.
I slide into the driver’s seat.
Grip the wheel with one hand.
Dig my phone out with the other.
I open the group chat.
Me: Found another one. Watching him now. Need intel. Stand by.
A second later, a heart reacts to the message.
Noah. He always hearts the alerts.
Sweet boy.
I press the lock button.
Glance up.
Mall entrance. Empty.
He hasn’t come out yet.
But he will.
And when he does?
I’ll see what he drives.
Tag the plates.
Build the profile.
Track the patterns.
If he’s worthy?
He’s mine.
A few minutes later, he steps out.
Casual. Unhurried.
A small bag in his hand.
Too small for jeans.
Like the mall was just a detour, not a destination.
Still watching everything around him.
Like it might come alive and try to bite.
Or like he’s looking for someone.
He doesn’t glance toward me.
Doesn’t hesitate.
Just crosses the lot with that same controlled stride.
Stops at a black SUV.
Unmarked. Clean.
Boring enough to be forgettable.
Except it’s not.
Not now.
I lean forward.
Just far enough to see the tag.
Type it into my notes app.
Screenshot it for good measure.
Commit the shape of his shoulders to memory.
Again.
The way he unlocks the door without looking.
Confident. Practiced.
The line of his back when he slides inside.
Strong. Solid.
Fuck.
He starts the engine.
Pulls out smooth.
No checking mirrors twice.
Drives like a man with somewhere to be.
Someone to follow.
I need a new notebook.
Pink, obviously.
With little hearts on the spine.
Something spiral-bound.
Refillable.
High ink-absorption pages for all the notes I’m about to take.
Because this one?
This one’s going to be special.
I can already tell.