Page 230 of Love Me Stalk Me
The nickname sends a fresh wave of desire through me, but I hide it behind a challenging smile. I bite my lip, watching his eyes track the movement, and arch into him just slightly, pressing my body against his in silent invitation.
"Why? What will you do?"
His body is taut against mine, wound up and vibrating with restraint—like the only thing keeping him from snapping is me, right here, under his hands.
The earpiece crackles to life again. I groan, frustration and desire mixing into a sound that's almost pained.
Cal mutters a curse, pressing his forehead against mine for half a second before stepping back, creating space that feels like miles after the intimacy of moments before.
My body protests the sudden absence of his heat. He recovers his composure faster than I can, though the tension in his shoulders tells me he's no less affected. "Go on, boss.Handle your VIPs."
I smooth my blouse, trying to regain some semblance of professional appearance. "Fine."
I push past him, forcing myself to walk away—even as my body screams at me to stay, to lock the door, to forget about clients and sales and responsibilities.
The VIP clients are already a handful from the moment I step onto the sales floor. The carefully orchestrated atmosphere of exclusive shopping has been disrupted by their presence, the elegant quiet replaced by too-loud conversations and demanding requests.
There are more of them than were originally booked, at least three extra bodies crowding the already limited space. The entire energy of the floor is off. The usual smooth, high-end shopping experience is suddenly chaotic. Too many people, not enough personal shoppers, and a growing tension as clients start getting restless, their expectations of immediate attention not being met.
I do my best to keep the situation under control, my manager smile firmly in place as I circulate through the floor. I coordinate with my team, delegating where I can, reassigning associates to balance the workload. Daniel is working overtime trying to juggle multiple clients at once, his usual meticulous attention now split between too many demands. Amanda is in the back frantically trying to pull more inventory to accommodate the unexpectedly large group, and I'm circulating, smoothing over ruffled tempers with polite smiles and reassurances that feel increasingly hollow.
But there's only so much we can do with limited staff and unlimited expectations.
A woman—one of the VIPs—snaps her fingers at me as I pass. The sound is sharp, imperious, the gesture one would use to summon a dog. I grit my teeth before turning with a smooth expression that betrays none of the irritation bubbling beneath the surface.
"Yes, ma'am?"
She's draped in designer clothes, dripping in her face a mask of entitled dissatisfaction. "This isn't what we asked for," she says harshly, gesturing to the item in her hands with barely concealed disdain. "It's too small. I need a different size."
I exchange a glance with Daniel, who is already knee-deep in handling two other clients, his usual calm demeanor starting to fray at the edges. His eyes plead with me silently, begging for rescue.
"I'll check the stockroom," I say smoothly. "And I'll get another shopper down here to help as well."
Daniel nods, his relief clear in the slight relaxation of his shoulders, the small exhale that escapes him.
"Thank you," the woman says, but it's not grateful.It's demanding, expectant, like she's simply acknowledging that I'm doing what I should have done already.
I turn and head toward the storage room, exhaling as soon as I'm past the displays, the tension in my shoulders easing slightly now that I'm out of sight. My professional mask slips just a fraction, allowing the irritation to show on my face for a brief moment.
This is a mess. A complete and utter disaster that will take hours to clean up, both literally and figuratively.
I push open the door to the stockroom, stepping inside the cool, quiet space, already pressing on my earpiece to call for backup.
Something behind me causes me to turn, and I freeze.
Two men—VIP clients I vaguely recognize from earlier—have followed me in. They stand between me and the door, blocking my exit.
I touch my fingers to my earpiece, my heart rate accelerating though I'm not sure why. There's no reason to be afraid. They're just clients. Maybe they're impatient. Maybe they think I'm not moving fast enough. Maybe they just want to see the inventory for themselves.
Why?
"There was no need to follow me," I say, forcing a calm, professional tone that betrays none of the unease creeping along my spine. "I'll be out in just a minute with your item."
Neither of them move.
Neither of them speak.
They just stand there, watching me with an intensity that's more than just impatience or entitlement. It's something darker, something purposeful.
