Chapter 6 #2
I count out his change quickly, fumbling with the bills. My hands are shaking, and I know he notices because his mouth curves into a half-smile.
I jerk the bills toward him.
“Keep it.” He says.
I wrinkle my nose. “What? No. I can’t—”
“Is that not a tip jar?” He nods toward the empty glass container on the counter, but his eyes never leave my face.
I bite the inside of my cheek.
It is.
Unfortunately.
I clench my jaw and drop the change inside. “Thank you.” I mutter.
I reach for the book to bag it, and he does too. Our fingers touch again. This time, neither of us pulls back right away.
His hands are warm and rough, with scarred knuckles that hint at the violence I know he’s capable of. It’s hard to believe they’re the same hands that touched my face so delicately.
I feel him watching me again. Studying me.
“Did you need anything else?” I ask, trying to regain some semblance of professionalism.
“Actually, yes.” He says, leaning against the counter. “I was curious about something.”
“What?” I ask warily.
“Why romance?”
My brow furrows. “What do you mean?”
“This.” He says, gesturing around the shop. “Why did you open a romance bookstore specifically?”
It’s a normal question. The kind strangers ask when they’re making small talk. But coming from him, it feels invasive. Like he’s searching for something to use against me.
The real answer is that romance novels were the only thing that made me feel something after I lost my parents. Their happily-ever-afters felt like proof that good things could still exist in my world, even if I was just experiencing them vicariously.
“I like them.” I say simply.
“That’s not a real answer.”
“It’s the only one I have for you.”
His eyes narrow slightly, like he’s deciding whether to push. Then they drop to my neck again.
“Your pulse is still racing.”
My face flushes. “It’s time for you to leave.”
“Is it?” He picks up the book, tucking it under his arm, but he doesn’t move away. “Or do you just need me to leave before you do something you’ll regret?”
I narrow my eyes at the accusation.
I hate that there’s truth in it. Hate that my body is betraying me. That some traitorous part of me likes him being here.
“You’re delusional.” I hiss.
He leans in, close enough that I can feel his minty breath against my ear. “Then why haven’t you told me to fuck off yet?”
Because I can’t seem to form words when you’re this close. Because my brain short-circuits every time you look at me like that. Because some damaged part of me recognizes the danger in you and gravitates toward it anyway.
“I’m telling you now.” I force out. “Fuck off, Echo.”
His smile widens. “I love the way you say my name.”
He straightens, finally putting some distance between us, but it still doesn’t feel like enough. He heads for the door, and for a moment I think I’m free. Then he pauses at the threshold and turns to face me.
“Oh, and Dahlia?” He says, pausing to look at me.
I hate that my name sounds different coming from his mouth.
“Yes?” I ask, dread pooling in my stomach. I eye the handful of customers still browsing around the store. None of them seem to be paying attention, but I’m still hyper aware that we aren’t alone.
I rush closer to him, so that we’re standing face to face. “What is it?”
“It wouldn’t be wise of you to ignore me again.”
My stomach drops. “I didn’t—”
“I know where you live, Bambi.” His voice is casual, conversational. “And who you live with. I know where you get your coffee every morning.” He says, his smile sharp. “And I know you’ve been smelling my jacket every night instead of throwing it away like you should have.”
My blood runs cold. “You’ve been watching me.”
“Every day.” He confirms. “You said we were friends. Friends check in.”
“That’s not friendship.” I hiss. “That’s stalking.”
“Tomato, tomahto.” He shrugs, completely unbothered. “Answer my text next time.”
“And if I don’t?”
He looks at me, and something dark and hungry moves through his expression. It makes my breath catch for an entirely different reason than it should.
“If you don’t…” He drawls. “Then, I’ll have to get creative about getting your attention.”
He smiles at me, seemingly unfazed by the obvious threat he just threw at me. “See you soon, Bambi.”
The door chimes as he leaves, and I’m left standing by the door with my heart pounding and my skin still tingling in all the places he touched me.
Echo was here for less than fifteen minutes, and somehow this whole place feels like his now. Like he’s marked it. Claimed it. Claimed me.
I pull out my phone and stare at our text thread. At the question I never answered. I ignored it, thinking he’d just forget about me, but I couldn’t have been more wrong.
I look out the window, checking to make sure he’s gone, and when I find him staring back at me, a lump forms in my throat.
He’s sitting in a car parked across the street, with the windows down, keys tossed on the dash, and his eyes locked on me.
The asshole is literally stalking me in broad daylight and he isn’t even trying to hide it.
I should call the police. I should do something. Instead, I stand there, with my fingers pressed against the glass, staring back at him.
And the worst part of all?
Some fucked up part of me actually likes that he’s watching.