Page 34 of Letters From A Stalker

“How did you keep track of everything?”

“Notes.”

“Would you rather walk me through them yourself, or would you prefer that I read what you wrote?”

The question catches me slightly off guard, mostly because he makes both options sound equally acceptable. He doesn’t reach for the phone or hold out his hand, and there’s no expectation in his posture that I should surrender something simply because he asked about it. I glance down at the screen. Letting him read it would be easier. Which probably means I shouldn’t.

“I’ll tell you.”

“Okay.”

I unlock the phone and open my notes, only to be confronted immediately by the title I should have changed while I still had the opportunity.

My thumb moves instinctively toward the top of the screen. Too late. Kai’s gaze has already dropped, his eyes remaining there for maybe two seconds before slowly lifting to mine. I know exactly what he saw. He knows I know but neither of us says anything. Heat creeps into my face.

Finally, he removes his glasses and cleans one lens with the edge of a cloth he pulls from his pocket, his expression infuriatingly composed.

“Blackwood’s Bullshit?”

I clutch the phone closer to my chest. “That wasn’t part of the assignment.”

“No, I assumed that was your independent contribution.”

“It helped with compliance.”

His lips pull into a barely there smirk at that. “I’m glad you found a system that works for you.”

There isn’t even enough sarcasm in his voice for me to fight properly and that somehow makes me even more cautious.

I narrow my eyes. “You’re enjoying this.”

He puts his glasses back on. “More than I should, to be fair.”

The honesty catches me so completely off guard that I laugh. Not the automatic little sound I’ve apparently been using for years whenever conversations become uncomfortable. A god’s honest real laugh, one that makes me sink farther into the chair while he watches me with an expression that suggests he has absolutely no intention of rescuing me from my own embarrassment.

“Can we please move on?”

“We can.”

“Without ever discussing the title again?”

“I can't promise that.” The slightly there smirk returns as he says that and then he looks toward the phone again. “What did you notice?”

The shift is subtle, but I feel it anyway. His voice doesn’t become cold or clinical, only quieter, and the humor that had been sitting between us recedes without disappearing completely.

I scroll through the note.

“I kept track of every time I said I was fine when I wasn’t, every unnecessary apology I caught, whenever I made a joke instead of answering something honestly, and every time I turned something emotional into something practical.”

“Which one happened most often?”

“‘I’m fine.’ By an embarrassing margin.”

“How many?”

“Thirty-nine now, thanks to you.”

His eyes remain on mine. “Over seven days?”