Chapter Ten
Juliet
Now that Noah is onboard, secure, handled, I can shift my focus.
I can finally take the time I need to hunt properly.
Because I need to know more about the sexy beast at my gym.
I start at my desk, flipping open his notebook.
He doesn’t have a name yet. That bothers me.
One small page of notes about his gym visits.
I don’t like gaps in my information.
When I glance at Noah’s notebooks, I smile. Two full volumes.
Detailed, organized, perfect.
I don’t think the beast will need that much.
He’s not the romantic type. Not the sweet, adoring man who needs to be wooed.
No.
He will need something else entirely.
I just need to make sure he’s what I want.
And then?
I’ll become exactly what he wants.
I tap the pen against my lips, considering.
I certainly don’t want to engage if he has habits I can’t tolerate.
You can never tell about some men.
The most beautiful ones can have shocking behavior.
Chewing with their mouths open. Snoring like a freight train. Being… sloppy.
I wrinkle my nose. No.
Not everyone can be perfect.
Thank God Noah only snores softly, and only when he’s exhausted.
I can live with that.
I can love that.
But this one?
I need to watch. Learn. Evaluate.
Because if he isn’t perfect, I won’t waste my time.
I shove the notebook in my bag.
In a pinch, I use the app on my phone and transfer my notes later, but I love handwriting them.
It’s personal.
And they are worth it.
My workday moves quickly.
I’m very good at what I do.
Everyone here loves me.
Loves my cupcakes. Loves the little notes I leave.
No one questions if I head out early.
No one asks why I need the extra time.
They trust me.
They always do.
I don’t have to rush.
He is generally at the gym in the late afternoon.
He probably works, like me. Cuts out around three. Predictable.
But what does a man like that do?
What kind of job builds a body like his?
I bet he’s a bouncer.
Or maybe night-shift security.
That would explain why he’s at the gym before five.
Before most of us with day jobs.
Security is better.
I wouldn’t want him in a bar all the time, surrounded by drunk women, being hit on constantly.
I run my fingers down the cover of the notebook.
I’ll find out.
I park outside the gym.
Not too close. Not close enough to be noticed.
Today isn’t about him seeing me.
Not yet.
Today is about me seeing him.
Really seeing him.
I have a feeling he’s going to be just what I need to compliment Noah.
They’re going to be friends and both totally mine.
The parking lot is quiet at the gym.
I sit back in my car, keeping my head low, phone in hand, looking just distracted enough.
But my notebook tells a different story.
My pen drags lazily over the page, looping around numbers, sketching little hearts in the margins. His plate number. I’ll run it at work tomorrow. Get his name, his address, his driving record.
Not that it matters. I already know everything important.
He’s disciplined. Methodical. A creature of habit.
He doesn’t linger inside like the other gym rats, standing around in their sweat-drenched shirts, flexing for attention.
He works. Focused. Intense. Powerful.
And then? He vanishes.
Until now.
The doors push open.
And fuck.
He’s big.
Bigger than he looked under the gym’s fluorescent lights. Bigger in real clothes. Bigger in the evening shadows, muscles still tight, still pumped from his workout.
And he knows it.
That thick chest, stretching the fabric of his shirt. Broad shoulders, rolling slightly as he moves, like his body is still burning from the weights. Thick, powerful thighs, flexing beneath heavy-duty cargo pants, functional, not stylish.
Looks like a security uniform.
Of course.
I knew he wasn’t just some guy wasting hours in the gym for vanity. He’s a weapon, honed, maintained.
And God, I want to test him.
My nails bite into my notebook. My breath comes just a little deeper, a little warmer.
What would that body feel like above me?
Would he pin me down? Hold me steady, like he holds the weight against his chest, like he knows exactly how much pressure I can handle before I break?
My thighs press together.
Focus.
I swallow, my pulse ticking higher as he strides toward his truck, black, lifted, reinforced bumper. A vehicle meant to take damage. Meant to last.
Just like him.
He’s not in a hurry, but he’s not wasting time either.
Efficient. Predictable. Easy to track.
His phone is in his hand, but he doesn’t text. Just glances at the screen, unlocks the truck, and slides in.
He doesn’t hesitate.
Engine on. Headlights cutting through the dimming light.
Time to go.
I give him three seconds.
Then, I pull out behind him.
And just like that? The hunt begins.
He takes a right and I follow.
Not too close. Not obvious.
Two cars between us, hands loose on the wheel, heart steady.
He’s not paying attention. His posture is relaxed. No tension in his shoulders. No glances in the mirror. No hesitation at stoplights.
He doesn’t feel me yet.
But he will.
Oh, he will.
Twenty minutes later, his speed drops.
I shift back, letting the distance widen, keeping myself just one more set of headlights in the crowd. Watching. Waiting.
Then his blinker flashes and he takes a slow turn into a gated lot.
I ease past, letting my gaze flick toward the sign at the parking space.
The glow of his headlights catches the words, illuminating them for a perfect, fleeting second.
And my lips part.
Oh.
Oh, I fucking knew it.
I called it.
Campus security.
Not a nightclub. Not some dimly lit dive bar where he’d have to peel drunk girls off of him, wading through sweat and spilled liquor every night.
No.
A college.
Where he watches… brainy bitches come and go.
I can’t decide if that’s better.
I mean, sure, it’s quieter. Controlled. Safe.
But college girls?
They’re so young. Fresh-faced, wide-eyed, soft.
And a man like him? They would swoon.
They probably giggle behind their coffee cups, whisper to their friends, steal glances while he patrols.
They probably think they have a chance with him.
That’s almost funny.
Because they don’t love him.
They don’t even know him.
They just lust after him.
And I don’t lust.
I love. I claim.
My fingers flex against the wheel, slow and even.
Focus.
This isn’t coincidence. This is a sign.
I knew he was the type to work security. I knew he had the discipline. The control. The power.
And now?
Now I know where to find him.
Where to put myself in his path. Where to start making him notice me.
A smile curls at my lips, slow and satisfied.
Because this is inevitable.
I can already picture it.
A day, not far from now. Me with a stack of books in my arms, teetering, ready to fall, except I make sure they do.
They hit the pavement, and I gasp, small, helpless, adorable.
And he’s there.
Big, broad hands scooping them up, voice low, steady. “You okay, sweetheart?”
Or maybe…
Maybe he notices me before I speak. Maybe he watches me walk across campus, gaze dark and assessing, lingering just a second too long.
Maybe he wonders about me.
Wants to know who I am.
Or maybe, maybe I make him come to me.
A drunken frat guy, stumbling too close. A hand reaching where it shouldn’t.
And then, him.
A solid wall of muscle, stepping between us. A hand wrapping around my wrist, guiding me behind him, shielding me like I’m something delicate. “You okay, sweetheart?”
I shiver.
Yes.
Any of those.
That’s how it’ll happen.
My fingers tighten on the wheel.
He doesn’t know it yet.
But soon?
He’ll wonder how he ever lived without me.
He disappears through the gates, his truck rumbling into the lot.
I don’t follow.
Not directly.
Not yet.
Instead, I drive past, and pull into the main parking lot. Because if I’m going to do this, if I’m going to place myself in his world, I need to do it right.
I step out, adjusting my skirt, my cardigan, my soft, delicate little outfit.
The walk across campus is easy. It already feels familiar.
The glow of streetlights, the chatter of students moving between buildings, the lazy energy of a weekday evening winding down.
I slide through the doors of the administration building, my steps light, my smile practiced.
The woman at the front desk looks up, her expression pleasant but tired. Late shift. Uninspired job. She won’t remember me.
Perfect.
“Hi!” I chirp, stepping up to the counter, voice warm, inviting. Sweet. “I was hoping to get some information about registration.”
Her lips press together. She nods, already reaching for a brochure. “Of course! Are you looking to enroll for next semester?”
I tilt my head, thoughtful, considering, as if this is a new idea. “Maybe,” I hum, accepting the papers. “I’ve been thinking about taking a class or two. Just for fun. Something creative, maybe… art?”
That sounds right. Soft. Romantic. Something that suits the Juliet he’ll meet. Something Noah would like.
She slides a glossy booklet across the desk. “Most classes start next month. If you fill this out, you can submit your application online or bring it here.”
A month. I smile, suppressing the slow curl of satisfaction in my chest. A full month to prepare. To watch him. To track him. To make sure he’s worth the effort. To see what he likes.
I scan the papers, already planning.
“So,” I murmur, keeping my tone light. “How safe is campus at night?”
She blinks. “We have security that patrols regularly.”
I perk up, all innocent interest. “Really? That’s good. I’d probably be here in the evenings.”
Her nod is quick, dismissive. She’s already moving to her next task.
I tuck the papers into my bag, my mind already a mile ahead and give the woman one last sweet smile before stepping back into the night.
A month.
It’ll be more than enough time.
And when class starts?
He won’t stand a chance.