A month later, he created a battery slimmer than the closest competitor by half, one that would run for nine days without charging. I planned the vacation. Booked the house. But we didn’t go. And I understood.

I was not a normal individual. I knew that. I used to be quirky. It used to be cute. I now think, when I brush my hair in the morning… when I take the time to confront my reflection and stare into my eyes… I think I was just lonely. Lonely and desperate and wanting to be held and loved and desired. Maybe that was normal. Maybe it was the ways in which I moved towards that goal what made me odd.

I sat on Lee’s card for a week. Tucked it into the frame of my mirror. Eyed it while applying mascara and lipstick. Stared at it as I brushed my teeth and flossed.

When I closed my eyes at night, I thought of him. When my hand stole underneath the covers and pressed hard against the ache between my legs, I thought of him. I watched the sunrise over my lawn as I sipped coffee and thought about hiring him to cut it. Then thought of all of the ways this would crash to the ground.

I shouldn’t call. But I couldn’t not call. I couldn’t stay away. You don’t understand.

But when I did call, he didn’t answer. And had no voicemail. I waited a week. Called again. The third week, his phone was disconnected. I grew frantic, then grateful over the obstacle, then frantic. I wanted him; I needed him. I wasn’t ready to say goodbye. I needed another fill of his cock. I grew obsessed, yet could find no hint of him. The harder I looked, the less I found.

So I took some time off. Forced my mind off the search for Lee and focused my attention on Brant. Planned vacations, spent more time at his house. We went to New Zealand. Bought a house in Hawaii. Shelled our own oysters in Key West. I tried to forget Lee. Tried to find parts of him in Brant. Failed miserably at both.

Called him again and this time his phone rang. Week seven or eight. Still no voicemail. I listened to the phone ring until it died. Then I gave stalking a try instead.

Four months after our first meeting, I found him.

Chapter 25

1 YEAR, 8 MONTHS AGO

“What are you doing here?” He came to a stop beside his truck, flipped his keys slowly in his hand as his eyes held mine. The man was not afraid of eye contact. Brant’s eyes were constantly on the move, following his mind. This man’s eyes glued and rooted me in place, his focus unnerving.

“I saw your truck. Thought I’d say hi.”

“Just driving by?” His eyes flicked over the street. Found my car, then returned to my face. “Doesn’t seem like your neighborhood.”

It wasn’t my neighborhood. But it was less than a mile from where we met. Two blocks from the bar where he f**ked me in the bathroom. I shrugged. “Visiting a friend.” Stalking you.

“Still that rich dick’s bitch?” His eyes didn’t leave my face when he said the crude words. They rolled off his tongue like f**king marbles, smooth and glib, the heat of his gaze making my pu**y pant in anticipation. God, I wanted him. His stance, legs slightly spread, full masculinity on display, the strength of his body showcased in the tight shirt and worn jeans, work boots on his feet.

“Yep.” I stepped closer, my heels crunching on the gravel, and his dominant stare finally left my eyes, dropping to my feet and dragging up the length of my legs, a smirk coming over his mouth. “Still want to f**k the rich dick’s bitch?”

His smile stopped and he jerked a hand forward, hooked his large palm around my waist and pulled me forward, my feet stumbling, but then I was flush against him, his back against the truck, his mouth hard as he kissed me deeply enough for me to taste beer on his tongue. My hands tangled in his shirt, prodding, feeling, his mouth hissing against my tongue when I ran my hands down and gripped the crotch of his jeans. “God, you are one f**ked up woman.” He pushed a hand over mine, let me feel his erection, the push against his jeans, my fingers outlining it, and I squeezed, savoring the feel of him.

“Step back,” he muttered, pulling his mouth off mine, his head dropping back as he pulled my hand away, dropped it, and suddenly, the connection was broken. “Fuck,” he swore, rubbing a hand over his mouth, looking up at me over his hand, those eyes tugging at my soul with one wary glance. I stepped back, feeling his desire for separation, unsure of what was causing the change. “Fuck,” he repeated. “You are crazy.”

I met his gaze. Said nothing. My body was still crying out for more. More. More. It wasn’t like this with Brant. I didn’t know why it is so different, didn’t understand it, but regardless of the reason, my sexual connection with this man was so much stronger. He had to feel it. His eyes said he did. His eyes were steady as he chewed on his thumb. Thought.

“I have a girlfriend,” he said the words as if they were dirty, and dropped his hand, rose to his full height and lifted his chin. “Is that a problem?”

Yeah. A big f**king one. I tried not to let my face show the war of emotions that were throwing a panic party in the front living room of my head. “No,” I whispered the words. Any louder and he’d hear the lie in them.

He yanked open the door to his truck. Stood there for a minute, his body blocking the entrance to the cab, my mind playing catch-up, desperately wanting to know what was about to occur. “It’s a problem for me. See ya Lucky.” He sneered the last word, as if I was anything but, the tone a slap in my face. I was still standing there, heels askew on gravel, my face red, panties damp, when he floored the gas and left me there, in the hardware store parking lot. Alone. His head didn’t turn, didn’t look at me when he drove past. He just left. Probably to go to her. My hands curled into fists.