Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 91216 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91216 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Tyler turns to face me, the book dangling from his fingers. His eyes lock onto mine, and I see that glint again—definitely excitement now, mixed with something darker.
“You know,” he says, his voice low and husky, “I’ve always found that the most interesting people are the ones with the most interesting bookshelves.”
Tyler is weird. Plain and simple.
I should be able to discuss this book. I’m an adult for fuck’s sake, but I can’t seem to find my voice. The room feels too small, too warm, and Tyler’s presence is suddenly overwhelming.
“I . . . I’m not that interesting,” I finally manage to say, my voice cracking as I do.
Tyler takes a step closer, still holding the book. “I beg to differ,” he says softly. “I think you’re very interesting. And I think there’s a lot more to you than meets the eye.”
My heart is thumping so hard I’m sure he can hear it. I should ask him to leave. I should stand up, take the book from his hand, and show him the door. But I can’t move. I’m transfixed by his gaze, by the way he’s looking at me like he can see right through me. Plus, I don’t want to upset him. I have to work with this guy.
Tyler stares at me—innocent but not— and I find myself sinking deeper into the couch, as if trying to disappear into the cushions. He’s still holding Story of O, his thumb absently caressing the worn cover.
“You know,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper, “I’ve always believed that our deepest desires, our darkest fantasies, they’re nothing to be ashamed of. They’re what make us human.”
Ewww stop. He’s going to ruin this book for me.
A bead of sweat trickles down my back. The room seems to shrink around us, the air thick and heavy. I should say something, anything, to break this tension, but my mouth is dry, my tongue leaden.
“So,” I say, desperate to change the vibe of the room, “the recent designs lately are amazing. I’m excited to show them off. In fact, I’m going to go live as soon as you leave.”
The intensity in his gaze makes me squirm so I stand and head toward the door. This is not the same Tyler from the office, the one who blushes when someone tells a slightly off-color joke. This Tyler is . . . different. But not different in a good way. Different in a way that tells me I need to gracefully get him out my door.
Tyler takes a step closer, his eyes never leaving mine. “Going live? That sounds interesting. Maybe I could stick around and watch?”
The air in the room suddenly feels thick, oppressive. I take an involuntary step back, bumping into the bookshelf behind me.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. “I’ll get too nervous knowing someone is watching.”
He doesn’t move.
“Thanks for stopping by, though.”
For a long moment, he stares at me, his expression unreadable. Then, just as suddenly as his demeanor changed, the mask of the affable executive slips back into place.
“Of course,” he says, forcing a laugh that doesn’t reach his eyes. “I’m sure you have a lot to do.”
I nod, relief washing over me as Tyler sets down his coffee mug and moves toward the door. But as he reaches for the handle, he pauses and turns back to me.
“If you change your mind about the party . . .”
As he finally exits, I close the door behind him and lean against it. Why was that so weird?
I shake off the unsettling feeling and double-check that I’ve locked the door. Something about that interaction has left me rattled, but I can’t quite put my finger on why. Maybe I’m just paranoid after recent years of living alone.
Trying to push Tyler out of my mind, I focus on setting up for my livestream. I arrange the latest Moth to the Flame designs on my desk, adjusting the lighting to showcase them perfectly.
I take a deep breath, centering myself before going live. This is my element. This is where I shine.
“Hey everyone!” I say brightly as the red light blinks on. “Thanks for joining me tonight. I’ve got some exciting new pieces to show you . . .”
Chapter Six
Jack
Obsession has a flavor.
I can taste it on my lips.
Before I “met” Chloe, I would have never known this little disturbing fact. It’s a bitter tang, like copper pennies and unripe persimmons. Sometimes I catch myself running my tongue over my teeth, chasing that elusive taste as I stand outside her window.
Chloe barely knows I exist, of course. Our brief meetings don’t count because she’s only met my outer shell. Nice Jack. Gentleman Jack. Fireman Jack who is always there to help. She hasn’t met the real Jack. The Jack who is creeping outside her window.