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)
“Oh, please,” I scoff. “Like what?”
“Like the fact that this man has only had your best interest in the forefront of his mind.”
“He let us meet, connect, and made me believe it was all . . . He’s been lying this entire time.”
“People do crazy things when they’re in love, Chloe.”
A flush creeps up my neck. “He’s not in love with me. He’s obsessed. There’s a difference.”
“I want the insane asylum kind of love.”
I stare at Sloane incredulously. “The insane asylum kind of love? Are you serious right now?”
She shrugs, a mischievous curve to her smile. “What can I say? I’m a romantic at heart.”
“You’re certifiable is what you are,” I mutter, shaking my head. “Look, can we drop this? I don’t want to talk about Jack anymore.”
Sloane holds my gaze for a moment, then nods. “All right, consider it dropped. For now.” She shuffles some rings on her desk, clearly changing the subject. “So since you insisted on working on our day off today instead of going out for pancakes and mimosas like I suggested—”
“I need the distraction.”
She rolls her eyes but smiles. “Then let’s talk about these new ring designs . . .”
I try to focus on work, but my mind keeps drifting back to Jack. Despite my anger, I can’t shake the memory of his face when he stepped in to save me. The fierce determination in his eyes, the way he put himself between me and danger without hesitation.
No, I tell myself firmly. Don’t go down that road. He’s a stalker, plain and simple.
But as I leave Moth to the Flame to return home, I find myself wondering: What if Sloane is right? What if there is more to Jack than I’m willing to see?
What is he doing right now?
Is he working?
Is he having coffee at our favorite spot?
Is he—
Stop! Stop obsessing over the man. I’m no better than he is.
I shake my head, trying to clear my thoughts as I walk down the bustling city street. The morning air is cool against my skin, a welcome relief from the stuffy office. I pull my jacket tighter around me, more for comfort than warmth.
I turn the corner and see his fire station. Could I have avoided it? Yes. The truth of the matter is I didn’t need to come near it and yet, here I am. I pause for a moment, my feet rooted to the spot. The red brick building looms before me, its large bay doors closed. A faint light glows from one of the upper windows, and I wonder if Jack is up there, perhaps filling out paperwork or chatting with his fellow firefighters.
Before I can stop myself, I’m walking toward the station. My heart races as I approach, half hoping and half dreading that I might catch a glimpse of him. I tell myself I’m just curious, that I’m just double-checking that he isn’t outside my window again, but at work, a safe distance from me.
As I near the station, I hear the sound of laughter drifting from an open door. My steps falter, and I find myself ducking into the shadows of a nearby alley. What am I doing here? This is ridiculous. I’m acting like . . . like Jack.
I’m about to turn and leave when I hear a familiar voice. Jack’s voice. My breath catches in my throat as I peer around the corner.
He’s standing outside the station, chatting with a couple of his coworkers. The sight of him sends a jolt through my system—a mixture of anger, fear, and something else I don’t want to name.
“You heading out, Jack?” one of the other firefighters asks.
Jack nods, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah, I’ve got some stuff to take care of.”
My heart rate picks up. Is he going to my house? The thought both thrills and terrifies me.
“All right, man. Take care,” his coworker says, clapping him on the shoulder.
As Jack turns to leave, his eyes sweep across the street. For a heart-stopping moment, I think he’s seen me. But his gaze passes over my hiding spot without pausing.
I watch as he walks away, his broad shoulders beckoning me like a god damn beacon. Without thinking, I step out of the alley and begin to follow him.
What am I doing? This is insane. I’m stalking my stalker.
But I can’t seem to stop myself. I keep a safe distance, ducking behind cars and into doorways whenever he looks back.
I follow Jack for several blocks, my feet feeling as if they are trudging through thick mud. He seems oblivious to my presence, walking with purpose toward an unknown destination. Part of me hopes he’s heading to his own apartment, while another part dreads the possibility that he might be going to my place. Or do I? My traitorous heart quickens at the thought of him watching me, his obsession, his need to be outside my window all those nights. I should be sickened by the idea, and yet I’m not. I’m actually . . . excited.