Page 6 of Fixation
But as much as I love it here, I need to head out. She’ll be home from her run in ten minutes, give or take.
Of course I know that part. I’ve timed her last three jogs, made time for it around my hospital schedule. I have them down to the second.
That’s not the only thing I’ve learned about her while I’ve been stalking her, both here and online.
Harper is a workaholic.
A successful workaholic who owns a famous jewelry company.
Possessiveness and pride bloom in my chest, as if she’s already mine.
She is yours.
Yes, she’s definitely mine.
Enjoying my last minutes here, I walk up to her mantel, past the rust-toned couches and oak furniture.
Not for the first time, I check out the picture of her with her dad, her mom, and her younger brother.
A picture-perfect family, owners of a Hollywood production company.
They must be rich. Still, she acts like this job is life or death. Like if she lets go for even a second, it’ll all fall apart.
There’s not a moment she isn’t hard at work.
Unless she’s creating pieces that I assume are custom orders—since a delivery guy has been here to pick up one box at a time, she’s attached to her pencil. Angrily sketching what must be bracelets, rings, and necklaces.
I got a glimpse of her wastebasket by the dining table earlier. Crumpled sketches fill it up.
Proof of the frustration I’ve seen through the window.
The undercurrent of violence is there.
Which is confusing. Even I—someone who only wears a watch on occasion and has never bought a piece of jewelry in my life—am impressed with her creations.
More than impressed. My jaw dropped the moment I clicked on the link to her website.
She’s more than a jeweler. She’s an artist.
I’ve been drawn to her creations, needing to see them on her body instead of the models’. To see her with them and nothing else and?—
Fuck, I’m hard.
And concerned. And protective.
I’ll figure out what’s bothering Harper.
I’ll fix it for her.
When I have her.
Later. Not this minute, when I’m walking on thin ice here. When I have no reassurances that Harper won’t be home early.
Yet I can’t leave before I take one last look at the picture she has on her mantel.
Growing increasingly attached, my knuckles turn white from the tight grip on the frame.
It’s the second time I’ve seen her today, and it’s hardly enough.
