Total pages in book: 199
Estimated words: 200280 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1001(@200wpm)___ 801(@250wpm)___ 668(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 200280 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1001(@200wpm)___ 801(@250wpm)___ 668(@300wpm)
“No?”
“No,” I inform him sagely. “Stalking sounds intense. Stalking sounds wrong. Stalking implies criminal behavior. And I’m not a criminal.”
His eyes rove over my face once again, something flickering in his eyes. “So what are you,” he pauses a second before saying, “Krista?”
I cringe again.
I wish he’d stop saying that name. I wish he’d say my name.
Even though I can’t tell him that.
And even if I could, I would never want him to call me by my name.
It’s tragic, my name.
Shakespearean and catastrophic.
I lift my chin. “Actually, before I answer your question, what I’d like to know is, if you thought I was stalking you, which I clearly was not, why didn’t you say anything before tonight?”
His grip flexes around my arm again. Then, “You mean, why’d I let you run after me in your sky-high heels all this time?” My feet teeter in my sky-high heels and he gives me my balance back once again. Then his gaze drops down to my boots for a second before lifting. “When you clearly don’t know how to walk in them.”
“I know how to walk in them.”
His eyes go to his grip on my arm then. “I beg to differ.”
“Actually you know what,” I try to twist free from his hold again, “I think I’m okay. You can let go of me now.”
And again, he doesn’t let me. “Why don’t you answer my question first?”
“Why don’t you answer mine?” I say curtly, rolling my shoulders, struggling harder.
He barely pays attention to my puny struggles. “I’m not the one trying to get free.”
“This is harassment,” I tell him then.
“I call it self-defense.”
“What? Self-defense from what?”
“From my pretty little stalker.”
“If you’re so afraid of me, then why don’t you just let me go?”
“And have you jump all over me in the throes of your stalkery obsession?” His voice, on the other hand, sounds amused. “Nah, I think I prefer to keep you trapped.”
“I’m not going to jump all over you.”
“Can’t take that chance, can I?”
I growl.
Then, “Listen, okay? I’m sorry I stalked you. I’m sorry I followed you around this past week. I’m clearly not going to make the same mistake again. So why don’t you just let go of me so I can leave and you can go back to that model-like blonde,” then before I can stop myself, I add, “who I have to say has very bad taste in shoes.”
“Does she now?”
“Yes,” I reply. “I’d never pair those silver sandals with the red dress that she’s wearing.”
He hums, still not letting go me. “Can’t say that I’m interested in her shoes though.”
“Well clearly not. Otherwise you wouldn’t be with her.”
“Or her dress.”
My heart squeezes. “Why, because she won’t be wearing it for too long?”
“Why, does that make you jealous?”
My heart squeezes harder. “No.”
At this, his lips pull up on one side and I watch his face become even more beautiful. Which I didn’t think was possible at all. But there you have it.
The Beautiful Thorn can become even more beautiful.
And I can become even more breathless and obsessed with him.
Even when I want to smack his face and stomp on his foot.
He leans down a little, his gaze boring into mine. “It’s okay. There’s no need for you to be jealous.”
“I —”
“There’s plenty of me to go around. And you can have a taste once I’m done with her.”
I blink.
Then I gasp.
And then I rear back, wanting to hit him. “You’re disgusting.”
Not that he’s afraid of me or my venomous words. Chuckling, he says, “But for tonight, that blonde was just a cover.”
“A cover for what?”
“To draw you out of your hiding place.”
It’s a testament to how frazzled I am that it takes me a second to understand what he’s talking about. And then I remember something from earlier. When even though he was dragging that blonde behind him with single-minded purpose, yet he’d stopped at the back porch to glance over at the bushes.
Shock runs through me then.
At the realization that he knew I was hiding behind the bushes.
Even though it shouldn’t.
I mean, he’s already admitted to knowing all along, but still.
“Because you knew where I was hiding,” I say finally.
“I did.”
“All this time.”
“Yeah.”
“You probably also knew where I was hiding at the last party.”
“Behind the tree. By the rose bushes.”
“And the party before that.”
“Under the living room window.”
Ugh.
I can’t believe he knew.
I cannot believe that he knew all along that I’ve been following him.
Or how poor my stalking skills are.
God, how fucking embarrassing.
“But you still chose to not say anything,” I say.
“Yeah, I chose not to.”
“Probably because you’ve been having too much fun laughing at me with your friends, right?”
His jaw clenches at my assumptions. “I’m not a very friendly person.”
“What, that’s —”
“And laughing at someone behind their back isn’t really my style.”
“I don’t —”
“What I’m not,” he says then, cutting me off yet again, “is a very patient person. So again, why the fuck have you been following me for the last week like bad fucking mojo that I can’t seem to shake?”