Page 6 of The Kissing Part
She darts into the library.
“Don’t just stand there looking guilty,” Mom says. “Go after her.”
I exhale sharply and walk toward the door.
“The chase is on…at a snail’s pace,” Frankie says with a laugh.
“Shut up,” I say over my shoulder just before I step inside.
I don’t see her. My heart pounds. She can’t afford to sulk alone somewhere when she’s got a stalker after her. I didn’t even find out who it is or what he looks like.
I weave through the shelves on the lower level, peer into the children’s room, and dash to the loft area, nearly knocking over a guy carrying a boom mike out. She couldn’t have just disappeared.
I check the bathrooms and even the back room behind the counter. No Shayla.
I walk up to a woman wheeling a camera out the double front doors. “Have you seen Shayla?”
“Yeah, she went to her car. I think she’s heading back to the city.”
“Thanks.”
I should’ve thought of that. She went in one door and out the other. I rush to the parking lot and spot a black Mercedes with tinted windows parked nearby. The car’s running, so I knock on the driver’s side window to keep them here.
The window powers down, and a man in his sixties with salt-and-pepper hair stares at me. “Who are you?”
“I’m Shayla’s friend. Claire Jordan’s son Owen.”
“I thought you looked familiar. I remember pictures from when you lost your two front teeth.” Paparazzi strike again.
“I need to speak to her.” I shift to the back window and knock on it.
The window powers down. Shayla lifts her chin in a way that says she’s digging her heels in. “I don’t need your help.”
“Yes, you do. Go to my office, and we’ll hammer out the details.”
“No.”
“No?”
“No.”
“So you no longer have a stalker desperate to get to you while you stay alone in a hotel room in a city of more than a million people who’d recognize you anywhere?”
“The hotel has a doorman and cameras in the lobby.”
I take a deep breath. “I’m not letting you put yourself at risk.”
“Why?”
“Because…you’re you.”
Her expression softens. “Maybe we could catch up.”
“We need a security plan. Not—”
The window slowly closes. “I’ll meet you there.”
I stare at my own reflection in the tinted glass. How did I end up insisting on helping when I wanted nothing to do with her?
