Page 110 of Love Me Stalk Me
She's right there.
On my bed.
In my space.
I swallow hard.
This?
This really is going to be a problem.
PLEASE HOLD WHILE I SELF-ACTUALIZE
IZZY
I siton Callahan's bed.
His actual bed.
And it's so much worse than I thought it would be. Because it smells like him. Like clean laundry, cedar, and something masculine that I don't have a name for but would 100% buy in candle form if that were an option. The scent wraps around me, as though the mattress itself has absorbed his presence.
And he's standing there, watching me, like he's trying very hard to figure out if we're about to make a huge mistake.
I clear my throat, pretending like I’m unaffected. "So, the security brief," I say, crossing my legs like I'm totally unbothered. The casual pose feels forced, even to me.
He blinks like he forgot why we were here. Then he shakes his head, pulls out his phone, and starts scrolling before finally sitting down next to me.
The mattress dips under his weight. And that's when I realize just how small this bed is. Because suddenly, he's very close. Close enough that I can feel the warmth of his body, the slight shift in the bed whenever he moves. Close enough that my breath catches in my throat for half a second.
I grab my tablet from my bag, because I don't go anywhere without it, and then I lock my eyes on it, pretending like I'm absorbing all the numbers and graphs in front of me, but all I can think about is how aware I am of him.
The way his broad shoulders take up too much space.
The way his thigh is inches from mine.
The way his scent lingers in the air around us.
I force myself to focus, taking a deep breath that only fills my lungs with more of his scent.
"Right," hemutters, his voice gruffer than usual. "The security brief."
We spend the next twenty minutes going over store security plans for the upcoming holiday season.
Yes, it's March.
Yes, that means Christmas is nine months away.
And yes, that means we have to start planning now, because Christmas in retail is basically a war zone, and only the prepared survive. The thought of the coming chaos makes my breath quicken with preemptive anxiety.
Callahan leans back against the wall, his arm resting behind him, his shirt stretched perfectly across his chest as he talks through the biggest security concerns. The fabric pulls taut over his muscles with each gesture, a reminder of what I glimpsed this morning in my kitchen.
"Holiday season means bigger crowds, bigger transactions, and more theft," he says. "Both petty and organized."
I nod, already pulling up the last quarter’s trend reports on my tablet. "Yeah, I flagged a spike in team-based losses last year. Mostly high-end merchandise, gone before the cameras caught anything useful."
He gives a small, appreciative nod. "Exactly. We’re talking professional-level theft rings. They send in people who blend into the crowd, work in coordinated units, and clear out entire displays before anyone even realizes what’s missing."
I glance up at him. "You think we’re already seeing signs?"
