Page 11 of The Stalker Snafu

Mother didn’t seem too thrilled by that admission if her sigh of parental disappointment was anything to go by.

“You’ll never reach your potential if you don’t put in the time and apply yourself,” she said.

“I’m always applying myself,” I said, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. My legs sped up, propelling me into the sparse flow of students on the sidewalk.

“How am I supposed to know that? Your father and I still aren’t receiving progress reports from Atticus. Have you straightened things out with him yet?”

I should be surprised by her gall in referring to a revered composer such as Atticus Slade by his first name, as if they were old friends—when my mother had never so much as spoken with him—but I was all too familiar with her lack of self-awareness.

“I’m working on it,” I muttered.

“You need to schedule a lunch with him. Take Atticus somewhere nice and try not to open your mouth too much. Just mention how much you admire his work, and it’ll put your name on the map.”

“Mother, that’d be inappropriate.”

“It’s expected. How is he supposed to notice you if you blend in with an auditorium full of students?”

“It’s a smaller class, actually. There’s only about forty of us.” I got in line behind a group of girls at the coffee cart, keeping a few paces between us so they didn’t have to hear my mother’s nagging through the phone.

“It couldn’t hurt to treat him to lunch every once in a while,” she said. “As long as you behave yourself and remember your etiquette, he’ll see how well brought up you are.”

My jaw twinged from how hard I clenched my teeth. “I can’t afford to take my professor out to lunch.”

“You don’t have to pay a dime for schooling with that scholarship. Mrs. Sterling tells me you’re still regularly tutoring little Miles, so you should have plenty of pocket money to treat Atticus to a nice lunch.”

Anger flared hot in my chest. She talked to Mrs. Sterling, too?

“That ‘pocket money’ is going toward textbooks and food, and other things my scholarship doesn’t cover.” I rubbed at my temple to get a head start on soothing the impending headache. I’d thought moving to California would get me away from her meddling. “Maybe if I could get access to the trust fund with my recital earnings, then I could afford things like bribing my professor.”

Her voice lost the sugary tone and took on a harder edge. “You’ll receive access to the fund when you turn twenty-five. Besides, money is already going toward your travel costs from that account. Those are funds we wouldn’t have to spend if you stayed home.”

I let out a shaky breath. She didn’t even care about the trust fund. Not really. My recital earnings were nothing more than a power play to them—and a cage for me. My parents thought they owned me until I turned twenty-five.

“I wouldn’t need much,” I doubled down, turning my back to the line of coffee enthusiasts and lowering my voice. “Just consider it an allowance.”

“You’re the one who wanted to go off on your own and go to college, Emmaline.” She spat the word out like it was a curse. “Your manager had enough performances lined up for you to go international soon, and you threw it all away to study books you’ll never need instead of taking advantage of the opportunities we provided you with. Now Atticus isn’t returning any of my calls. If this isn’t working, then we have no option but to pull you back home⁠—”

“Professor Slade is more than working!” I cut in. I scratched my nose and fought the temptation to kick a nearby trash can. “I’ll talk to him about progress reports, okay?”

“And about getting an independent study next year,” she added. “His assistant told me he only accepts one or two new students every fall. I put in a good word, but she claimed to have no pull in his selections.”

I wanted to die.

Just how often did my mother talk to Blaise? Or was this a different personal assistant?

My mother went on and on about Slade and how to make a good impression, and I only half succeeded in not rolling my eyes. I was turning back toward the coffee cart line when a large figure a building over caught my eye.

The hair on the back of my neck bristled.

The guy stood off to the side of the cafeteria all by himself, partially hidden by a large bush. My eyes narrowed, taking in his outfit. Dark pants. Dark shirt. Dark everything. He glanced up, and my blood chilled—I’d seen him before.

My stalker.

I peeked over my shoulder to see if maybe he was looking at the coffee cart. My gut told me he wasn’t, and the instinct to flee hit hard. I ditched the coffee line to walk past a row of patio tables as the agitation grew. Unsure where to go, I looped around a group of students as my mother prattled on in my ear.

A glance over my shoulder showed my stalker strolling leisurely behind me, scratching at the scruff on his jaw and gazing at the ground.

The last two times he followed me, he’d worn a baseball cap. Now his dark hair was out in the open and flying in all directions.