Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 77309 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 387(@200wpm)___ 309(@250wpm)___ 258(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77309 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 387(@200wpm)___ 309(@250wpm)___ 258(@300wpm)
I laugh, but that sounds like Conlan. “Amazing what people can accomplish in their car.”
“Amazing what an extremely obsessed man can do with unlimited money.” He squints at me. “You seem surprisingly okay with this arrangement. I expected way more yelling when you came over here.”
“I guess I got used to it. Anyway, have a good one.” I leave him there before I accidentally admit to how much I’ve enjoying getting stalked by my fake husband.
I drop into the rhythm of my days. Wake early, check to make sure the truck’s out there, go for a run, look over my shoulder to make sure he’s following, head home, take my diner shift, check to make sure the truck’s following me home, wave to him before going to bed. Each night, a single headlight flash to let me know he’ll be there. Waiting and watching.
A month goes by. Another month. Flowers keep arriving, along with more meals from all over the city. A new TV shows up alongside a guy that mounts it in my living room. Clothes appear from my favorite brands—new running shoes, comfortable pajamas, even a sweatshirt to replace one that gets a huge wine stain. My gutters are cleaned, my lawn is cut, my hedges are trimmed. A guy even fixes a broken pipe in the basement before I have time to call anyone, and I have no clue how Conlan found out about that. “Don’t worry, we’re paid.” The contractors never accept my money. They’re adamant about that.
Through it all, Conlan’s there. He’s always there. That truck becomes the most consistent thing in my life, like a safety blanket. I can’t sleep unless I wave to him and get a flash in return. I hate leaving the house if he’s not going to follow me.
I realize I’m dating my stalker from afar, and it’s kind of nice.
One night, after a particularly lonely stretch, I’m bored and tired and just want to hear another human voice, but Allison isn’t home. In a fit of desperation, I pick up my phone, put it on speaker, and call Conlan.
“Hello?” He answers immediately. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. Can you put on a movie in your truck?”
He hesitates only for a moment. “Yes, I can do that.”
“Okay. Let’s watch something together, but I’m picking.”
Another short pause. When he speaks, his voice is very measured, but I can tell he’s controlling himself. “That would be nice.”
“Good. Don’t read into this too much, okay?”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
We end up watching Casablanca since neither of us have ever seen it before. I hear him breathing very quietly through the phone the whole time, and even though we don’t say much to each other, I know he’s there. When the movie ends, I shift slightly, looking over my shoulder at the door.
“Want to do it again in a few days?” I ask.
“I’d love that.”
“Good. You can pick next time.”
I hang up before he can respond.
The movies become a part of our routine. We alternate picks, and generally I like what he chooses, and he seems to like what I’m into. We talk before the movie starts, and for a little while afterwards, but I never let it get too serious. Just small stuff, like how the Lincoln’s doing, how Allison’s fitting in, stuff about the diner.
Until one evening, a few months after we started the movie thing, he says something that makes me want to stay on the line with him for the first time in a very long time.
“You looked good while you were running today.” His voice is low, velvety. A small thrill runs down my spine and I close my eyes, picturing the way his touch felt. It’s been so long now, but the memories are burned bright in my mind.
I recall them all the time when I need a little release.
“Thanks,” I say. “I’m getting in pretty good shape.”
“You’ve always been in great shape. I think about you in that flapper dress the last time we spoke. I think about it all the time.”
“Why?” I shouldn’t ask him that. It’s dangerously close to the one subject we never speak about. The one thing we should talk about, but once that line’s crossed, the magic will be ruined.
“Because I don’t think I’ve wanted a woman like I wanted you that night in my life. You looked perfect, the way that dress hugged your hips, the plunging neckline, even the beads covering your cleavage just the smallest bit. You were beautiful. A gorgeous tease. I couldn’t stop staring at you.”
“Thanks,” I whisper, chewing on my lip. “You looked good too.”
“I think about the nights we spent together.” He pauses as if he’s giving me a chance to stop him. But I don’t. “I picture you in my bed wearing barely anything. You liked it when I kissed your neck. You made these beautiful whimpers.”