Page 5 of Trapped With My Stalker

“I’d like a table away from everyone,” I tell the hostess, removing my hat. Thankfully, there aren’t a lot of people here. Although most eyes are glued to me. Small towns are like that. I hear whispers. Some of them saw me in town as I shopped for my Nana, but we kept my visit quiet. I never want her to be the victim of my celebrity. If the press hound her, I’ll never forgive myself.

“Sure thing, handsome. Anyone else joining you?”

“No.” I sit by myself and then stare at my menu, but my appetite fades as I watch her with him on their date. He’s a prick.

Fuck, I thought she could be a stalker, but in reality, it’s me. She clearly didn’t follow me here. The beautiful woman I’ve spotted all over town has a man, a big, strong, handsome fuck who has his own successful business. There’s nothing that she’d need or want to chase me down for. “You know. I’ll just take my food to go.”

“We don’t normally do that, sir, but for you, we can make that exception.” She gives me a sympathetic smile, stealing a glance toward Georgia. Does she think I’m heartbroken? I’m not hurt. Annoyed? Yes. Heartbroken? Hell no.

It takes about fifteen minutes before my food is ready, and I do my best to keep my head straight forward and avoid stealing any glances at Georgia. When she hands me my food, I pay the check and then leave a large tip for their trouble. As I make my way toward the exit, I stare at her until she finally gives me what I want and turns her head my way. Her man doesn’t even notice our brief exchange because he hasn’t taken his eyes off his phone. If she were mine, my phone would be sitting in the bucket of ice, drowning in water, so we wouldn’t be disturbed.

On my way back to my cabin, I stopped by the local store and scooped up a bottle of Jameson Whiskey to go with my dinner. My delicious-smelling dinner never makes it into my stomach because the booze goes down a lot smoother. I go down harder, collapsing on the bed like a ton of bricks without slipping out of my clothes.

****

It’s three the next day when I finally crawl out of bed, head pounding and brain foggy as fuck. “What am I doing?” I grumbled, rubbing my crusty eyes. This isn’t the way I need to be acting. I’m twenty-nine, not fifty, and yes, the only woman I have an attraction to is taken, but I still need to get my head out of my ass. Stripping my clothes off, I head toward the shower, but then the doorbell to my cabin rings. It sounds like a damn bullhorn instead of the damn ding-dong like it should. I need some painkillers or something, but I really need is for whoever it is, is to get the fuck out of here.

“What the hell?” I stumbled toward the door.

“Hello, Mr. Barrymore,” a sweet voice calls out.

I whip open the door without giving it a second thought. “Whoa. Oh my God,” Georgia squeals, slapping her hands over her eyes. “Mr. Barrymore, I came to drop this off. It arrived for you this morning, but you didn’t answer your cabin phone line.” She turned her head, but all I could focus on was the ring on her finger. Was that an engagement ring?

“Sir, can you take this, or at least put some clothes on?” she stammers while scolding me. It’s only then that the breeze hits my free willy. The pain in my head subsides.

“Oh shit.” I drop back, snatch a nearby blanket, and wrap it around my waist. “Who sent it?” I ask, fighting off the growing wood. Damn, why does she turn me on so much? Even with my pounding head, the woman has got me stiff. I hate that she’s refusing to give me her eyes. They’re a pretty shade of greenish-brown eyes that are sparkling in the bright sunlight. They’re so perfect.

She attempts to hand over the bouquet of black roses while trying to keep her eyes averted. “I don’t know. I only just arrived at work after it came in, Mr. Barrymore.”

“Toss them in the trash.” There’s no reason for me to have them, and only one person who could have sent them.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, who the hell would want black roses?” Knowing they’re from my stalker infuriates me. If they weren’t from the crazy chick, I’d think they were cool.

“I think they’re pretty if you’re into dark colors. They have a hint of red and purple in them.” She shrugs her shoulders, biting down on her bottom lip, looking at the petals. “Still, I’ll toss them, Mr. Barrymore. Should we refuse any more deliveries for you?”

“I’d appreciate it if you found out who sent them first before refusing them,” I tell her, hoping they can find out who this bitch is that’s stalking me.

“Yes, sir.” She nods, getting ready to turn away, but for some reason, I just can’t let her do that.

“If you like them so much, you can keep them,” I offer, delaying her for a moment.

“Thank you, but I couldn’t,” she said, walking away and hopping into a nice dark blue SUV.

I watched her drive away, and then I closed the door before locking it. Dropping the blanket, I hop into the shower. The cold chills away the stiffened ache between my legs that throbbed the moment she called out my name. Suddenly, the hangover was back but a little less forceful than before. I needed some food in my stomach. Scrubbing the smell of booze off my body, I remember the dinner from last night. “Fuck.” I don’t think I put it in the fridge. It’s probably still on the counter, spoiling. I wash off and consider what I have stocked up in the pantry and fridge. At least I hit the store out of town two days ago.

I jump out of the shower and towel off, heading into the kitchen with a towel wrapped around my waist. The first thing I snag is an apple because I need something to hold me over while I dig into the fridge. Spotting my dinner from last night, I smile. It seems my drunk ass did put it away. The microwave dings just as my cell phone goes off in the living room.

Only a few people have this number. Could it be Georgia for some reason? I race to get it, but it’s just Felicity calling, which probably means she has the images for me. “Do you have the images?” I ask.

“Why are you out of breath?” she questions with a tone I don’t fucking care for.

“Not that it’s any of your business, but I just rushed out of the shower when you called. Do you have the images?”

“Um…yes. I can send the pictures over to your phone.”

“Good. How many are there?”

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