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 try to push the feeling away but it strangles me like a vine, wrapping around my chest and squeezing tighter with each breath.
What’s wrong with me? He’s a stalker, a predator. I should be calling the police, not fantasizing about him in my bedroom.
But I can’t help imagining his eyes on me as I undress, his ragged breathing fogging up the glass. Would he press his palm against the window, aching to touch me? Or would he remain perfectly still, drinking in every detail?
I shake my head, trying to clear these twisted thoughts. This isn’t me. I’m not the type of person who gets turned on by danger. Am I?
Fuck me . . . maybe I am.
As we turn onto a quieter street, I nearly lose sight of him. I quicken my pace, rounding the corner in time to see him enter a small coffee shop. Relief washes over me, followed quickly by a pang of disappointment. I’m not sure what I expected, but this feels oddly anticlimactic.
And this coffee shop isn’t our coffee shop. It’s in imposter coffee shop.
I hesitate outside the shop, peering through the window. Jack is at the counter, ordering something. Before I can talk myself out of it, I push open the door and step inside.
The bell above the door chimes, and Jack turns. Our eyes meet, and for a moment, time seems to stand still. His expression shifts from surprise to confusion to something I can’t quite read.
“Chloe?” he says, his voice a mixture of hope and uncertainty.
I open my mouth, but no words come out. What am I doing here? What could I possibly say?
“I . . . I was just . . .” I stammer, feeling my face grow hot.
Jack takes a step toward me, his brow furrowed with concern. “Are you okay?”
The genuine worry in his voice catches me off guard.
“I’m fine,” I manage to say. “I was just . . . passing by.”
It’s a weak excuse, and we both know it. Jack’s lips quirk into a small, sad smile.
“Passing by, huh?” he says softly.
The words hang in the air between us, heavy with implication. I should be angry, should turn and walk out right now. But something keeps me rooted to the spot.
“Jack, I . . .” I start, then trail off, unsure of what I want to say.
“I’m trying a new place,” he says, looking around the imposter coffee. “I gave you custody of Pete’s.” He smirks, and I appreciate he’s trying to cut the tension between us.
I feel a mix of emotions at his words—gratitude for his consideration, frustration at his charm, and a strange sense of loss at the idea of him no longer frequenting our usual spot.
“Well, since you are here . . . can I buy you a coffee? No strings attached, I promise. Just two people who used to know each other, having a drink.”
I hesitate, every instinct telling me to run. But something keeps me rooted to the spot. Maybe it’s curiosity, maybe it’s the sincerity in his eyes, or maybe it’s something else entirely.
“Okay,” I hear myself say. “One coffee. But this doesn’t change anything.”
He turns to the barista and orders me a latte, then gestures to a small table in the corner. I follow him, my heart beating so aggressively, I’m sure he can hear it or even see it expanding and contracting against my flesh.
We sit across from each other, an awkward silence settling between us. I fidget with my napkin, avoiding his gaze.
“So,” Jack says finally, “in the neighborhood?”
I let out a nervous laugh, my eyes darting to meet his before quickly looking away. “Something like that,” I mutter, knowing how ridiculous I sound.
Jack leans back in his chair, studying me with those intense eyes of his. “Chloe,” he says softly, “what’s really going on?”
I take a deep breath, trying to gather my thoughts. How can I explain something I don’t even understand myself?
“I don’t know,” I admit finally. “I saw you at the station and I just . . . I followed you. I don’t know why.”
Jack’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “You followed me?”
“I know, I know,” I say quickly, feeling my cheeks flush with embarrassment. “It’s crazy and hypocritical and—”
“And a little bit flattering,” Jack interrupts, a small smile playing on his lips.
I glare at him. “This isn’t funny, Jack.”
Jack reaches across the table, his hand stopping short of mine. “I’m going to do something I’ve never been good at,” he says. “I’m handing over control to you. You call the shots on this.”
I stare at his hand, so close to mine. It would be so easy to reach out, to bridge that gap. But I can’t. Not yet.
We sit in silence for a moment, the weight of his words hanging between us. I take a sip of my latte, buying myself time to think.