“Thank you, Miss.”
“You’re welcome.” I watch as she applies another layer of mascara to her eyelashes, as she treats her puffy lips to a fresh coat of unwitting sin.
After she readjusts her mask and heads to the door, I pull out my phone to call Nate.
Even though I’m standing knee-deep in the evidence, I want a final confirmation before rendering the verdict.
It rings once.
It rings twice.
“Hello?” he answers.
“Hey.”
“Hey.” He pauses. “What’s going on?”
“I wanted to know if you were working late tonight.”
“I am,” he says. “I’m currently out with a client. Would you like me to get you something on my way home?”
“A fresh pint of Pralines ’N Cream would be nice.”
“Done. I’ll see you at home.”
“See you at home.”
Before I can figure out my next move, a loud knock comes at the door.
“This is security!” a deep voice bellows. “My apologies for interrupting, but I need to step inside to check on something.”
Dammit.
I look around for an exit door and spot a closet. Slipping inside of it, I wiggle behind a tall stack of boxes. Then I notice another handle inside.
Twisting and pushing it as hard as I can, it gives way, and I find myself facing a wall of mirrors. Another row of sinks.
What the…
Confused, I turn around. And before I can pick up my fallen sunglasses or make sense of where I am in this building, I realize that I’m standing directly in front of the man I followed home the other night.
Mister R.
I suck in a slow breath as his eyes meet mine, and the entire balance of the room shifts in his favor.
Unlike everyone else here, he’s not wearing anything over his face, and as strikingly beautiful as he is in his dark grey suit and tie, all I can focus on are his eyes.
They’re a deep shade of ocean blue with soft flecks of winter grey and they’re pinning me to the spot, rendering me utterly useless.
He says nothing for several moments, eyeing me intently as he moves closer, so close that his chest nearly brushes against mine.
My heart races against my chest as he looks me up and down, as his lips slowly part.
“Do I need to file a restraining order?” he asks, his voice deep.
“What?” His question catches me entirely off guard.
“It’s quite clear that you’re stalking me,” he says. “And I’d like to hear why.”
“I’m not—” I notice the dimple in his right cheek deepening. “I’ve never seen you a day before in my life.”
“We both know that’s a damn lie.”
“You must be confusing me with someone else then.” I play a new hand of deceit, unwilling to fold easily. “I don’t know your name, and you definitely don’t know mine. Besides, I come across a lot of strangers in my day-to-day life.”
“Oh?” His lips curve into a smirk. “Well, I don’t. And seeing as though this is my second time coming face to face with you in a place where you don’t belong, I can assure you that this is the very definition of stalking.”
“No, it’s not that.” I don’t bother selling my ignorance anymore. The look in his eyes confirms he’ll never buy it. “I honestly didn’t think that you saw my face the other night.”
“I did.” His gaze travels to my lips. “It’s been quite hard to forget.”
Silence.
He takes a small step forward, and I take a small step back.
He places his hands against the wall above my head—trapping me in place—demanding that I give him more answers.
A banging noise sounds at the door, immediately saving me, and he looks away.
“I know you’re in here, Miss!” The security guard barges into the room. “You’re not allowed to be up here, and I want your badge.”
He stops dead in his tracks when he catches sight of Mister R.
“I am—I am so sorry, sir.” His face pales, and he swallows. “I didn’t know you were in here. I was just, I thought—”
He rushes out of the room without finishing his sentence, and Mister R returns his attention to me.
“Now, where were we?” His question is rhetorical. “Oh, yes. I believe you were about to explain why you chased me down the highway the other night or why you’re at this party uninvited. You can pick which one to address first.”
“I don’t have a reason for the former.”
“Then give me one for the latter.”
Don’t answer that… “Tonight is just a coincidence.”
“Coincidence.” He tests the word on his tongue, enunciating every syllable, saying nothing further.
We stare at each other for several minutes, letting the distant strings from the orchestra serve as the only sound between us.
I can tell that he knows the notes and flow of this concerto as well as I do; the way his fingers tap the bricks at the fermata, the way they strum for every crescendo, reveal that he’s spent his fair share of time in the world of music, too.