Chapter 4 Felicity
Felicity
I should not have had that final drink last night, I think as I press my hands to my clammy temples.
I’m such a lightweight these days—completely aged out of the party years when I could hold down my share of drinks—that even the couple of drinks I had left me nursing a hangover this morning.
Luckily, I’m my own boss, so no one’s looking over my shoulder to make sure I get work done.
Unluckily, I’m a Type A personality, and I don’t know how to take a day off.
So here I am, sitting in my rented coworking space—a windowless cage I pay dearly for just to be part of this tech rat race—with the lights turned low.
I’m slowly sipping a drink that’s marketed for children but has gotten me through many tough hangovers in the past. Between sips of electrolytes, I take swigs of lukewarm black coffee to get my energy levels up.
With my headphones on, the lights dimmed, and a room temperature cup of coffee by my mouse pad, I managed to enter a sort of work nirvana while debugging code.
I’m not sure I’ve even looked up from my computer in that same amount of time.
So it’s incredibly jarring when the lights in my office flicker like I’m in a horror movie before going out completely.
All that remains to light the room is the reedy blue glow of my laptop. I gulp, only a little freaked out.
Must just be a motion-sensor thing. Some new setting to conserve energy. Disregard that I have worked in this same office pretty much every day for months and never had this happen before. Things can change without my knowledge, I remind myself. However much I wish that weren’t the case.
Either way, I’m unsettled enough to decide to take a break. Maybe get something to eat. This is just the universe’s way of making me buy a muffin, obviously.
I’m unplugging my headphones when I hear a deep voice say, “You’ve got to come up for air every once in a while, Felicity.”
I jump, knocking over my coffee mug and staining the front of my white shirt. As I’m scrambling to protect my laptop from the spillage and dig through my bag to find the pepper spray I always keep on me, the lights come on all at once.
Leaning against the door frame, one leg crossed leisurely in front of the other, is the stranger from the bar. Same dark wash jeans, same leather jacket and white t-shirt, same gelled, coiffed hair. His arms are crossed as he eyes me smugly from the doorway.
Ridiculously, and against all survival instincts, I skip right past being creeped the fuck out to being annoyed by his sudden presence.
A small part of me is, stupidly, disappointed that the guy I met last night might be a stalker.
Because of course he would be—the one nice man I’ve connected with in a long time is a toxic weirdo, surprise, surprise!
And I feel justified once again in developing my anti-dating app to avoid situations like this.
But a smaller, even more shameful part of me is almost happy to see him. I knock that thought away before it can get more oxygen.
“You!” I say dumbly, pointing a shaky finger at the intruder. My other hand keeps digging through the dregs of my tote bag for the pepper spray. Maybe he’s not a stalker here to kill me and wear my skin, but I’m not taking any chances.
“Me,” he responds calmly. Just that one word, and nothing more. Still leaning against the door frame, still the picture of unflappable cool.
“Are you stalking me or something?” I ask as I try to keep calm—and keep him talking.
He laughs, and it’s just like I remember from last night. Carefree. Infectious. Psychopathic, perhaps?
His insouciance only pisses me off more—and while I’m still desperately seeking my bottle of pepper spray, I’m also overcome with the need to tell this jackass off.
“Do you really need a Valentine’s date so badly that you’d resort to stalking? Kind of pathetic, don’t you think?” I start babbling to distract him, to keep him over there while I’m over here, fingers creeping infinitesimally closer to that elusive bottle of pepper spray.
“Stalk you?” He chuckles as he shoves his hands into his pockets. “I’m not stalking you, Love. And I’m the last person to ever need a Valentine.”
“Then why were you just magically at that bar last night, hitting on me, and how are you here right now when I never even gave you my name?”
The man pushes off against the door frame, taking several steps toward me, and—yes!—my fingers connect with the pepper spray at last. “Aha!” I shriek, fisting the canister of pepper spray and pointing it squarely at him.
“Hey, now, take it easy…” he says, putting his hands up.
Bad move, bucko. Why don’t men understand that telling a woman to calm down is a surefire way to make her do the opposite?
“Answer the question, Fonzie, or I’m gonna let this thing rip,” I say through gritted teeth.
He takes a small step back, his chin retreating into his neck as if I’d slapped him. “Fonzie?”
I can’t be sure, but he seems hurt by this comparison, which is extremely weird for a stalker to be concerned with when he’s in the middle of, well…stalking. We’re both still for a moment before the man drops his hand to the collar of his jacket, shrugs twice, and looks me in the eye.
“James Dean.”
“Uh, what?” My pepper spray-wielding arm drops half an inch.
“My look. It’s supposed to be reminiscent of James Dean. Not Fonzie.” He pulls at his jacket cuffs, one at a time. “You know, the whole rebel-without-a-cause thing. It’s classic.”
What’s…happening.
Dumbfounded, my arm drops another half inch. My mouth drops along with it.
“You don’t really think I look like Fonzie, do you?
” he continues. And, strangely, he looks entirely too concerned that I answer this question correctly.
Then he takes another step in my direction, and I remember that this man is an intruder, he is a threat, no matter how much he resembles a beloved American icon—and it really is a toss-up between Fonzie and James Dean, now that he mentions it.
“Don’t get any closer,” I tell him. “I have a black belt, and I will kick your ass.”
That stops him in his tracks. But instead of looking scared, he looks amused.
He grins a genuine, big, blinding grin and stops at the edge of the desk, which is now the only thing separating us in my small office.
“Ooh,” he says in a low voice, leaning to place both hands on the desk’s surface.
“If you keep talking to me like that, Love, I might fall in love with you.”
And with a deft flick of his wrist, the pepper spray I’ve been holding onto for dear life flies out of my grasp and hits the far wall of the room.
“Now, Felicity,” the man looks at me with a smile, “have a seat.” He gestures to my abandoned office chair. “We need to talk.”
I stare at my empty hand, then at the spot where the pepper spray landed. What the hell just happened?
“Who the hell are you?” I snap, plopping down with a scowl. “And what do you want with me?”
“Think of me as a—” he looks around before snapping his fingers. “A messenger.”
I roll my eyes, already tired of this. “Can you cut it with the dramatics, Fonzie, and just get to the point?”
He looks at me sidelong, lips lifted in a smirk. “So you’re just always a bit feisty, huh?”
Now it’s my turn to flinch. He’s far from the only person to give me that tidbit of unsolicited feedback. And even though I don’t know this guy, it still hurts to have one of your insecurities thrown in your face by a stranger.
“I like it,” he adds, casually.
Oh. That’s new.
Taking a deep breath, I try to let a sense of calm wash over me. It doesn’t work, of course, but at least I can say I tried. I make another attempt to reason with him—to get answers.
“Please, stranger, sir,” I begin. “If you wouldn’t mind telling me, sir, why you’re stalking me and holding me against my will, pretty please?”
He scoffs and sits down in the chair across from me. “I’m not holding you hostage, Felicity. You can leave whenever. It’s not like I have you in handcuffs. But I have to admit I like the sound of you begging.”
My face flushes at his flagrant flirting, and my traitorous stomach has the nerve to do a little flip.
“So go if you want to go,” he adds, waving a hand toward the door. “But I think you’ll want to hear what I have to tell you.”
I cross my arms huffily and flop back into the chair. “Fine.”
“The name’s Cupid, by the way. Nice to officially meet you, Love.”