Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 91216 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91216 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
I’m worried that she may start to talk herself out of this, so I type, Until Christmas Eve, I want you to think about what might happen. I want you to imagine my hands on your body, my lips on your skin. But you’re not allowed to touch yourself. Not until Christmas Eve.
I see her squirm in her chair again, clearly affected by my words.
That’s cruel, she types back, but I can almost hear the playful tone in her voice.
Consider it part of your punishment for earlier, I reply. And motivation for good behavior.
And if I’m not good? she asks.
Then maybe Santa will have to leave coal in your stocking instead of me in your bed.
She laughs out loud at that, the sound carrying through my speakers. It’s a magical sound, one that makes my heart soar.
I’ll be good, she promises. The best you’ve ever had.
If only she knew how good she already was, how perfect she is in my eyes. But I can’t tell her that. Not yet.
We’ll see, I type instead. Now, it’s getting late. You should get some sleep.
You’re right, she agrees. Goodnight, WinterWatcher. Sweet dreams.
Goodnight, BlackAsChlo, I reply. Give me your address, and I’ll see you soon.
I watch as she shuts down her computer and gets ready for bed. As she slips under the covers, I lean back in my chair, my mind racing with possibilities.
Christmas Eve can’t come soon enough.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Jack
I’ve looked at the text exchange far too many times. I’m trying to not overanalyze or read into it too much, but it’s hard to resist.
Me: Chinese food and movie tonight? Your place or mine?
Chloe: Uh . . . tonight? sure. My place works.
What does the . . . mean? Why didn’t she capitalize the s in sure? Maybe she’s just busy and distracted. Or maybe she’s not really excited about our plans. The “Uh” feels hesitant, like she’s trying to come up with an excuse. Now I’ve worked myself into a frenzy over two tiny punctuation marks. Or the lack thereof.
My thumb hovers over the call button. I could just ask her directly if everything’s okay. But what if I’m being paranoid? I don’t want to come across as needy or insecure. Or maybe what the real issue is that I know I need to come clean and tell her who I am. Tell her what I’ve been up to the past two years.
I lock my phone screen and toss it onto the couch, trying to push the nagging thoughts from my mind. But they creep back in, persistent as ever. The truth is, I’m terrified of how Chloe will react when she learns about what I’ve done. Will she understand why I had to watch over her—from afar? Or will she feel betrayed, scared, creeped out and call the police to report me as the stalker that I am?
I pace around my apartment, my mind racing. The walls feel like they’re closing in, reminding me of all the secrets I’m keeping. It’s still too early to head over to Chloe’s for our date, but I can’t wait around any longer. I’ll make a stop at the florist before I pick up the Chinese food and get her something. Something that might soften the blow of my confession.
I grab my keys and head out, my stomach churning with anxiety. The late afternoon sun setting feels too bright, too exposed. I squint as I make my way to my truck, constantly glancing over my shoulder out of habit. It will be dark soon. But not dark enough for me to hide in the shadows like I’m used to.
The florist’s shop is a riot of colors and scents. I wander the aisles, touching petals absently as I try to decide. Roses feel too cliché, too romantic for what I’m about to do. Lilies are too funeral. My eyes land on a poinsettia. On theme for the night, friendly, unassuming. Perfect.
Back in the car, I place the plant carefully on the passenger seat. The Chinese restaurant is busy, filled with the sounds of sizzling woks and rapid-fire Mandarin. I give my name for the pickup order, then wait, shifting from foot to foot.
My phone buzzes. It’s Chloe. Don’t forget the hot mustard. Nothing screams getting in the holiday spirit like cleaned-out sinuses.
I text back, Will do. See you soon. I add a smiley face emoji, trying to keep things light.
The woman behind the counter calls my name, handing over two large paper bags. The smell of garlic and ginger wafts up, making my mouth water despite my nerves. I ask for extra packets of hot mustard, remembering Chloe’s text.
As I drive to her house, my mind races through different scenarios. Should I tell her everything right away? Or ease into it over dinner? Maybe I should wait until after the movie. But no, that feels dishonest somehow, like I’m trying to manipulate her emotions.