Page 108 of Beneath Her Skin

“No, no,” he stutters. “You’re not Mr. Kowalski’s Poppet?”

Feeling a wave of confidence, either from the bubbles or adrenaline, I stand my ground. Placing my hands over my chest, I stare down my nose at him.

“No, my name is not Poppet and I’m not telling you my name. Please, leave me alone before I get security involved.”

The man takes a step towards me and I reflexively step back again.

He pauses his advancements when he sees me purposely avoiding him. A look of disappointment washes over him. Adjusting his jacket, the man fidgets with the middle button before returning his gaze to me.

“Apologies for the intrusion, ma’am. Must’ve been a mistake.”

He bows before walking away towards the bar.

I stare after his retreating figure, utterly confused as to what the hell that interaction was.

Brooke bounds up next to me, the smell of her apple perfume engulfing the space around us. It’s a welcoming scent from the toxic fumes the man’s presence assaulted me with. I glance at her from my peripheral, aware that turning my back to someone who is comfortable grabbing strangers probably isn’t the best option.

“What the fuck was that about?”

I adjust my arms, keeping them crossed. Chewing on my bottom lip, I contemplate how much to tell Brooke or to leave it alone to enjoy the rest of our night.

“He thought I looked like one of his dates,” I opt for instead. Enough information to provide context and keep my guard up, but not so much it’ll cause a problem. I am not sure if it was acoincidence he said Miles’ last name. My last name. But that’s not something I want to dwell on right now.

Brooke looks over my shoulder to the bar area, her face scrunching with pursed lips and a down-turned smile.

“Oh, ew.”

She scans the length of the bar, searching for the stranger. Her eyes lock onto the end of the bar, the same place I was previously looking.

“Grey suit with gaudy gold jewelry and a mafia haircut?”

I nod.

“Maybe he’s mistaken for meeting you at one of Miles’ office parties. He looks like the white-collar type.”

I turn to follow where Brooke is looking.

The man stands off in the corner of the bar. Pink and blue lights play off his glass, creating a disco ball effect. His attention is hyper focused on me. Despite my protests that he doesn’t know me, he’s keeping tabs on me, pretending to be drinking alone at the bar as Brooke and I slowly walk away. A shiver runs up my spine, goosebumps rising on my skin. It's unnerving being watched so intently with little explanation.

Brooke squeezes my shoulder. “Want to get security involved?” Her tone is more worrisome than normal.

I shake my head. “No. Let’s get one more dance in then go home. We need to be leaving soon, anyways.”

Brooke bows, mocking the man’s earlier advances, and extends her hand out like a knight waiting for her princess. A complete mockery of the creep bowing to me moments earlier.

“Mi’lady.”

Giggling, I place my hand in hers, bowing as I accept her hand in mine. I allow her to whisk me away to the dance floor.

I make a mental note to ask Miles about the interaction tomorrow. But for now, I’m going to enjoy the music before the clock strikes midnight and I turn into a pumpkin.

5

The next morning was uneventful. Miles had zero clue about my whereabouts the night prior and I plan to keep it that way. I started my day like normal, getting up with Miles to share a cup of coffee together before he headed to work. I busied myself with some chores and got frozen chicken out to thaw for dinner. Now, I’m lounging in bed with Princess, reading the next installment in my book series. All while my husband is none the wiser that we had a small girls’ night.

I half expect the man I had an encounter with to say something if he truly knew Miles from work, but it’s possible he would be too embarrassed to mention it.

While a small part of me felt guilty for lying—no, not lying.Omitting. I was omitting information—about my nightly routine, it was for the best. Miles has a tendency to blow things out of proportion. Truly, he’d win an award for most dramatic fights in a relationship. He could turn even the smallest inconvenience into a Shakespearean tragedy.

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