Page 46 of Sacrifice
Saga
One Week Later…
The bell above the door chimes, and I don't need to look up to know who it is. I can feel him—that electric charge in the air that announces Emil's presence better than any warning system.
"We're closed," I call out, continuing to sort through a new shipment of vintage band tees.
"Sign says open for another hour."
I finally look up, finding him leaning against the door frame like he owns the place.
Black jeans, white t-shirt stretched across his chest, leather cut making him look even more dangerous than usual.
A week of his daily "check-ins" hasn't made me immune to the sight of him.
"We're closed to you," I clarify, turning back to my inventory.
"That's discrimination. Pretty sure that's illegal."
"Sue me."
He moves into the shop, boots heavy on the old wood floors.
I track his movement by sound, refusing to give him the satisfaction of watching.
He stops at a rack of leather jackets, fingers running over the material.
"Nice stuff," he comments. "You pick all this?"
"No, the merchandise fairy does it."
"Sarcasm before six PM? You're in a mood."
"I'm always in a mood when you're around."
It's been like this all week.
Ever since that night with my tires, he's been everywhere.
Texts asking if I made it to work.
More texts asking about lunch.
Even more asking if I need a ride home.
And the prospects—God, the prospects following me like lost puppies on bikes, trying to be subtle and failing miserably.
"Boss man know you've got a protection detail?" He moves to another rack, this one holding vintage Harley shirts.
"Andrew isn't my boss, he's the owner. And yes, he noticed the parade of bikers who suddenly need vintage clothes." I slam the inventory clipboard down harder than necessary. "He thinks I'm in witness protection."
"Told him you witnessed me falling for you?"
"That's the worst line I've ever heard."
"I've got worse if you want them."
"I want you to leave."
