Chapter 10 I Say Good Morning. She Sends Filth.
I SAY GOOD MORNING. SHE SENDS FILTH.
CAL
I leave the meeting with Izzy and head back to the security suite, but my focus never really leaves her. The soft click of the door closing behind me does nothing to break the connection I feel to her, even when she's out of sight.
One screen stays locked on her office, always.
It's not an excuse—it's security. It's my job. The feed shows her sitting at her desk, tablet in hand, shoulders slightly tense as she works through whatever crisis the morning has delivered.
That's what I tell myself, anyway.
But the truth is, I like watching her.
I learn her.
The way she smooths her hands over her hips when she's stressed—which I hate, because it means she's carrying too much, but also love, because my eyes are drawn there every damn time.
Her fingers trace the curve of her body almost unconsciously, like she's reassuring herself she still exists amid the chaos.
She's got a body built to be touched. Held. And yet, she moves like she's constantly trying to shrink herself down. Like she doesn't want to take up too much space. Like she's apologizing for her very existence.
That pisses me off.
I don't get men like Evan.
Men who have a woman like Izzy and can't even see what they have. She's Italian, for fuck's sake. She's got hips, curves, softness in all the places a woman is supposed to. A body that's been celebrated in art for centuries, now treated like it's somehow wrong.
And damn, I'd love to sink my fingers into it while—
I stop that thought immediately.
I exhale hard, running a hand down my face. I need to get a grip. The stale air of the security suite suddenly feels stifling.
But still, it frustrates me.
Because she doesn't move like a woman who's comfortable in her own skin.
She moves like someone who's been made to feel like she should be smaller. Like she should take up less space, fit some kind of bullshit, unrealistic standard. Her body language betrays every criticism she's internalized, every disapproving glance she's absorbed.
Like she should have Amanda's shape instead of her own.
Amanda, who's all long limbs, harsh angles, no softness anywhere. Not that there's anything wrong with that—but that's not Izzy. That will never be Izzy, and it shouldn't have to be.
Izzy's got a body made for indulgence.
And men like Evan make women like her think they have to change.
That they're too much when they're already perfect.
And if anything—she's malnourished.
I knew she wouldn't eat this morning.
Even with Caleb telling her to.
And I was right.
Watching her eat that sandwich in the conference room made me feel things I didn't know how to deal with. The way her eyes closed briefly at the first bite, the small noise of appreciation she made without realizing it—it stirred something primitive in me.
Frustrated.
Possessive.
Like—if she won't take care of herself, I'll just have to do it for her.
The clock chimes 11 AM, the sound jarring in the quiet room, and I push up from my chair, forcing myself to move. Staying here, watching her all day, won't accomplish anything but feed this growing obsession.
As I pull up the live feeds to do my rounds, I spot Amanda walking into Izzy's office, already talking, already up to whatever the hell she gets up to. Her blonde hair swings with each animated gesture, her voice inaudible through the monitor but clearly energetic.
Izzy looks up, shaking her head at something, but she doesn't kick her out. There's an ease between them I haven't seen her share with anyone else.
I check my phone.
She never responded to my text this morning. Well, Caleb’s text.
Caleb
Good morning, pretty girl. Make sure you eat something today.
Nothing.
I stuff my phone back into my pocket, ignoring the completely irrational irritation curling in my gut. She's still getting used to it. She was apprehensive about the app to begin with.
That's all this is.
It's fine.
I step onto the sales floor, the change in lighting momentarily disorienting after the dimness of the security suite. The polished floors gleam under the bright lights, the morning crowd still thin but growing. I scan the perimeter as I approach the first guy in rotation—Martinez.
"Morning," I say, nodding at him. "Everything good?"
Martinez straightens, alert, professional. "Yeah, all clear so far. Had a guy hanging around the watch display for too long when we opened, but he moved on once I gave him a look."
"Subtle intimidation. Nice touch."
Martinez grins, his earpiece chirping softly at his hip. "Figured I'd go for the don't even think about it approach."
I nod. "Works better than chasing them down after the fact." I scan the floor, checking the usual high-theft areas, noting the position of each security camera. "Anything else?"
"Couple of new employees seem green," he adds. "One of the girls in accessories left a display case open for way too long. I let her manager know, but it might be worth reminding them all about general security protocol."
I glance toward accessories, making a mental note. "Good catch. I'll bring it up in our next staff briefing."
Martinez nods, and I pat his shoulder once. "Let me know if anything changes."
"Always," he says, already shifting his attention back to his post, his posture returning to the subtle alertness that marks a good security officer.
I move on, heading toward the next position.
That's when my focus drifts.
It happens without me realizing it—the moment my brain isn't occupied, she's there.
Izzy.
Last night. The conversation I shouldn't have enjoyed as much as I did. The way she started opening up, even just a little. I shake my head. This is wrong. I don't do this. I don't attach. The military trained me better than this—attachment is vulnerability, vulnerability is risk.
And yet...
For the first time in longer than I can remember, I actually got a few hours of sleep. Not good sleep, but better than usual. The usual nightmares had stayed at the edges instead of consuming me entirely.
And I can't stop thinking about why. I'm still scowling at myself when I reach the next guy in rotation. Harris.
I nod at him. "How's it looking?"
He starts talking, and I make an effort to listen. I really do. But then my phone vibrates against my thigh. I glance at the screen. And freeze.
Pretty Girl has sent a text.
But not just any text. A completely dirty, nasty, filthy message.
To Caleb.
Jesus.
Harris is still talking. I am not listening.
"...Sir?"
I snap my eyes up. Harris is waiting, his eyebrows raised in question.
Shit.
I clear my throat, forcing myself back into the moment. "Sorry—say that again?"
Harris repeats himself, and I nod like I wasn't just blindsided by the filthiest text message I've ever received in my entire goddamn life.
"Yeah, I was saying one of the cameras near the south entrance was flickering earlier.
It's fine now, but I wasn't sure if it was a connection issue or if someone was messing with it. "
I nod, forcing myself to focus. "Good catch. I'll have tech check the feed, see if there was any interference."
Harris shifts slightly, glancing toward the main floor, his weight transferring to his other foot. "Also, we had a guy loitering near handbags for a while. Didn't try anything, but he wasn't shopping either."
"Got a description?"
"Mid-forties, expensive suit, slicked-back hair. The type that looks like money but acts like trouble."
I don't like men who linger. They're usually either casing the place or harassing the staff. "Next time, call me," I say, my voice flat.
Harris nods. "Got it. You want me to keep an eye out?"
"Yeah," I say, already making a mental note to check the footage later. "If he comes back, I want to know."
Harris claps a hand to his headset. "You got it, boss."
I nod once, pat his shoulder, and keep walking. The second I round the corner, putting myself out of sight of both customers and staff, I pull out my phone again.
I stare at the message, the words glowing on my screen.
Read it.
Twice.
Fuck.
I wasn't ready for this. Now I have a choice. Do I respond while I'm at work and keep this whole thing going? Keep her engaged, keep pulling her deeper? Or do I let the AI take over for a while so I can actually focus on my job?
I take a slow breath, fingers hovering over the keyboard.
Another message comes in.
I read it, my heart rate spiking instantly.
And just like that, the decision is made for me.