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N.R.
Nico Rossi.
Son of a biscuit! That man was in my house… but how?
I squeeze my eyes closed and force my racing thoughts to quiet. Nico brought me home yesterday afternoon and left. I clearly remembered locking the door after he’d departed. So how did this portrait find its way into my living room?
I want to hate the painting, but I can’t seem to tear my eyes away from it. The way Nico captured the sunlight dappled across my hair brings it to life in a fiery riot of colors. I look beautiful, like a hundred times more exquisite than I have any right to be. Even my annoying freckles are toned down, nearly disappearing within the warmth of my perfect skin tones. Is that really how he sees me?
My stupid heart flutters around in my chest like a lost butterfly.
What is wrong with me?
I should be terrified… This man broke into my home, invaded my privacy and—and left me a present? Oh, H, E, double hockey sticks.
I finally force my gaze away from the stunning painting and place it back up on the mantel because clearly, I’ve lost my mind. I should throw it in the dumpster. But I can’t bear the thought of destroying the masterpiece.
I should call the police and get the arrogant Nico Rossi arrested. That would teach the smug a-hole some manners. Surely, he was caught on my security camera. I march-slash-limp, because my ankle still hurts like a mother, over to my phone which I left on the coffee table and open the security app. I toggle through last night’s images and find… nothing.
Not a trace of the sneaky stalker.
How is that possible? I flip through the footage again and again, but the only person I see all night is me sprawled across the couch. My legs spread-eagle, nonetheless. Great… Not only did Nico get his run of my house last night, but he probably also got a front row view of my lady bits.
With an exasperated sigh, I vow to call the security company when I get to work. There must have been a glitch in the system. And if Nico could get in—my thoughts jump to a dark place. No. Jasper’s gone. There’s no reason he’d ever come back.
Shaking my head to dispel the dismal thoughts, I scan my messages for a distraction.
Jack Dawson. Bingo.
I still hadn’t texted or called him back like I’d promised myself. I stare at the blue text bubbles and put on my big girl panties. Just move your fingers across the keyboard, Maisy. It’s easy, even four-year-olds can do it.
Me: Hi, sorry for the late reply. I twisted my ankle and have been kind of out of it. It’s a long story… I’ll tell you about it if you still want to grab that coffee.
Too rambling? TMI? I stare at the message, delete and re-write it again for a full five minutes before forcing my finger to jab the send button. Within seconds, the little blue dots appear.
Jack: No worries, I’m just glad to hear from you. Let’s meet up tomorrow at Joe Coffee on Columbus at 9?
Me: Sounds perfect.
I slip my phone into my pocket, all dresses should have pockets by the way, and stagger toward the stairs. I stare up the winding staircase and let out a super unlady-like grunt that would have my mother tsking with the best of them. Nothing worse than an ungrateful rich kid, but today with my throbbing ankle, I’m cursing my three-story townhouse.
Slowly, I ascend the white-washed wooden staircase, regretting each and every decision I’ve made since meeting Jasper Whitaker. At least it’s Friday, and I can take it easy over the weekend.
I finally make it to my bedroom and release a long sigh. The room is my personal oasis, a peaceful escape of pale blues and airy whites. A light canopy hangs atop the four-poster bed, reminding me of the princess one I had as a child. The new king-sized bed was a gift to myself after the divorce. I couldn’t stand the thought of sleeping in the same bed I’d shared with Jasper for all those years.
Stumbling to the closet, I peel off the dress I’ve been wearing since yesterday. I’d never admit it, especially not to a certain mob boss with stalker tendencies, but I probably should have gotten my ankle looked at. There was no way I would’ve made it up the stairs yesterday, and even now I’m not certain I’ll make it to the bus stop by foot. Darn, dang it.
If that creepy butthead hadn’t been following me, none of this would have happened.
I take a quick shower, all the while balancing most of my weight on one foot and hurry to get dressed for work. At this rate, I’m going to be late.
When I finally get back downstairs, I jerk out my phone and search for the Uber app. There’s no way I’ll make it to the bus. Every step is growing more painful. Whipping the front door open with my eyes pinned to my phone, I slam into a hard body.
My heart leaps up my throat, and I scream as a familiar spicy, charred scent fills my nostrils. “Holy smokes!” I cry out as piercing sapphire eyes lock on mine.
“Sorry I frightened you, little fox.”
“What are you doing here, Nico?” I rasp out, my hand clapped against my chest.
