Page 10 of Love Me Stalk Me
I don't like it.
Not just him, but the entire unspoken exchange.
I don't like the way Isabella had to sidestep instead of shut him down. I don't like the way she had to be careful when he had the freedom to do whatever thehell he wanted.
And I really don't like the way I know this isn't the first time she's had to deal with it.
The transaction wraps up quickly after that. She hands him the receipt, thanks him for his business, and waits for him to leave before exhaling a slow, measured breath. Not frustrated. Not rattled. Just tired.
I flip through the other cameras, tracking the man's exit. He walks out like he owns the place, adjusts his cuffs, slides into the back of a black car waiting at the curb.
I make a note of his license plate.
Just in case.
I lean back, flexing my fingers, trying to shake the tension from my hands. This isn't my business.
But I don't like that it's hers. And I like even less that I know she'll probably be dealing with men like him tomorrow.
And the day after that.
And the day after that.
I shut off the feed, push back from the desk, and head to check on her.
JUST ANOTHER DAY IN THE PATRIARCHY
IZZY
By the timeI get back to my office, my face hurts from holding in every retort and comeback Iwantedto throw at that man. My cheeks ache from the forced smile.
I shut the door harder than I need to, drop my tablet on the desk, and brace myself against the surface. I close my eyes and breathe, letting the silence of my office sink in. It’s the first real stillness I’ve had all day.
Breathe.
This isn't new. I've dealt with this before. Men like that exist in every luxury retail store, in every city, in every industry where they have money and power and the delusion that because they can buy expensive merchandise, they can buy people too.
It shouldn't get to me, and usually it doesn't. I've developed a professional armor over the years—a polite smile that doesn't reach my eyes, a tone that stays just this side of cordial. But the way that guy insisted on my attention today, how his eyes lingered a beat too long on my body, makes my skin crawl in a way I can't easily dismiss.
I push off my desk and march straight to the mini fridge in the corner of my office. The one corporate says istechnicallyfor storing complimentary beverages for VIP appointments, but in reality has become my personal refuge. I pull open the door, the cool air hitting my face as I reach inside for my emergency stash of Coke Zeros.
The aluminum can feels cool against my palm as I pop the tab with a satisfying hiss. I take a long sip, the carbonation fizzing against my tongue, and lean back against my desk, finally letting my shoulders drop for the first time all day. The tension begins to loosen in my neck as I close my eyes.
The moment lasts exactly five seconds before my door swings open.
"Okay, what the fuck was that?"
Amanda strides in,stilettos clicking against the floor like rapid gunfire, eyes narrowed in full hot-girl aggression mode. Her blonde hair swings with each determined step.
Amanda Bennett isn't just my assistant manager—she's my friend. My blonde, sassy-as-hell, takes-no-shit-from-anyone friend. The one who divorced her useless husband at twenty-two, reclaimed her independence, and now treats men like expensive handbags—fun to have, easy to replace, and never worth settling for just one.
She stops in front of my desk, arms crossed, waiting for an answer. Her perfectly manicured nails tap impatiently against her forearm.
I take another sip of my soda, the cold liquid soothing my throat. "Which part?"
"The part where Mr. Wall Street Handsy requested your personal attention like you were some kind of high-end call girl," she says, eyebrows raised. "And don't tell me you didn't notice, because I was about three seconds from tripping into that fitting room and rescuing you myself."
I groan, rubbing my temple where a dull headache is beginning to form. "It was fine."
