Page 62 of Love Me Stalk Me
Did I push too far with Caleb?
The conversation had been fun. She'd seemed into it. The messages we exchanged had grown increasingly intimate, her responses eager, uninhibited. But now she won't even look at me directly.
Maybe I misread her.
Or maybe this has nothing to do with me at all.
Maybe it's Evan.
Maybe he did another dick thing before nine a.m. Another comment about her body, another passing critique disguised as concern.
That would make sense. Some men wake up and choose coffee. Evan probably wakes up and chooses to chip away at Izzy's confidence.
I hate that I don't know.
I watch as she turns her head slightly—just enough to glance back at me. The movement is subtle, almost imperceptible, but I catch it. The quick dart of her eyes in my direction before snapping back to the hallway ahead.
Like she's trying to sneak a look.
Teasing her is becoming a favorite pastime, watching her get flustered. The way her cheeks flush, the way she fumbles for words, the slight stammer that creeps into her voice when she's caught off guard.
But she already seems off her game.
I let her have thisone.
When we get to her office, she moves inside first, immediately setting up at her desk, like she needs a barrier between us. Her space is meticulous—color-coded files, precisely arranged notebooks, and a whiteboard filled with what looks like inventory projections. Post-it notes line one edge of her computer monitor, each one written in neat, precise handwriting.
I pull up the security feed and take the chair beside her, leaning in to get a better view. The screen comes to life, displaying multiple angles of the store floor.
And that's when I catch it—her scent.
Fuck.
It’s soft with hints of vanilla and coconut. Feminine. Addictive. The kind of scent that doesn’t just linger, it haunts.
I love it.
It's not overpowering, not something that walks into the room before she does. It's subtle, personal—something you'd only notice if you were close enough.
And I am.
I let myself enjoy it. Let myself breathe it in, commit it to memory.
Then Izzy moves her chair slightly away from me.
I pause.
Not much. Just a small shift. Barely noticeable. The wheels roll softly against the carpet as she creates an extra inch of distance.
But I notice.
I take a slow breath and clear the air. My focus returns to the screens, to the job at hand.
"Who's the VIP?" I ask, watching her carefully.
She exhales, rubbing her fingers over her temples. "Some big-shot investor in the city. He does all his shopping here, so corporate treats him like royalty." Her voice carries a weary edge, like she's been through this routine too many times.
I watch her expression carefully. "And?"
