Page 83 of Stalkers Anonymous

Look where that got me.

My anxiety is still there, making my heart race and my hands shake. But underneath it, there’s something else now. Something that feels almost like spite.

Good. I can work with spite.

I pull the blanket back over my head, but it feels less like hiding and more like regrouping.

Chewy makes a concerned noise from across the room.

“I’m fine,” I tell him from inside my blanket fort. “I just told off a hospital administrator and I’m planning to file formal complaints against my employer. It’s fine. Everything is fine.”

He chirps skeptically.

“Okay, maybe not fine. But definitely necessary.” I poke my head out to look at him. “We’re not being doormats anymore, Chewy. New era. This Hailey doesn’t take shit.”

He tilts his head like he’s not entirely convinced I can pull that off.

“I’m going to try.”

Chapter Nineteen: Hailey

Cole and I spend hours at the police station later that afternoon, but as we trudge back into my apartment just after five p.m., I wonder why we bothered. I know filing reports and laying down a paper trail is important in cases like this, but it’s hard not to feel crushed by the futility of a broken system. Without physical evidence or witnesses, it’s your word against his. There’s nothing we can do, but call us if something happens.

What kind of world do we live in that waiting for the other shoe to drop—with physical evidence and witnesses, of course—is the best protection being offered?

As soon as we get back to my apartment, Cole follows me into the kitchen, his presence making the space feel approximately three sizes smaller. The man is built like a Greek statue that someone accidentally brought to life—all broad shoulders and solid muscle and a jawline that will make you forget what you were saying mid-sentence.

Not that I’m staring.

I’m definitely staring.

I distract myself by arranging sunflowers in a vase. We stopped at the store on the way back from the police station, because I insisted on cooking dinner for Cole tonight to thank him for all he’s been doing for me. The flowers seemed like a good idea at the time—their sunny yellow petals and wide, friendly faces seeming to promise a brighter day ahead. But the dopamine hit I’d been hoping for fizzles out. A bouquet of cheery flowers can’t touch the numb resignation spreading through my insides.

I’m hyperaware of Cole moving behind me—the sound of his footsteps, the musky scent of his cologne, the steady rhythm of his breathing. Every nerve in my body is tuned to his frequency like some kind of horny radio antenna.

Maybe I don’t need sunflower-fueled dopamine.

Maybe I just need to get Cole’s pants off.

I welcome the giddy euphoria that fizzes through my blood at the thought. I might be an adult woman who can make dinner without spontaneously combusting from proximity to an attractive man, but right now, I’d happily burn.

When I turn around, he’s closer than I expected. Close enough that I can see the green flecks in his hazel eyes. Close enough that I could count his eyelashes if I wanted to. Which I don’t. Because that would be weird.

“I’m starving,” he says, but I don’t believe for a second he’s thinking about the steaks I bought us.

“Steak and garlic mashed potatoes, coming right up,” I manage, my voice coming out slightly breathless. Very cool. Very casual. Not affected at all. “Nothing too fancy.”

“Sounds perfect,” he says, and the way he’s looking at me confirms it: he’s absolutely not talking about the food.

I hand Cole a bottle of wine to open before I do something embarrassing, like run my tongue over his muscled forearm.

He turns the bottle in his hands, staring between it and the corkscrew on the counter.

“You can open a bottle of wine, right?” I ask, raising an eyebrow at him.

“Of course I can open a bottle of wine.”

“If you say so…” I trail off.