Page 40 of Bloom: Part 2

I stabbed the spoon into the cup and craned my neck to see if the weird guy was back.

“What are you looking for?” Logan asked.

“Some fucking weirdo was snapping pictures of me.”

“What?” Logan scanned the faces around us. “Who? Why?”

“I don’t know. Never seen him before.” At least the ice cream was scrumptious. So good. Just what I needed to top off my day.

“Was it a man?” Logan hadn’t touched his chocolate flavor yet. His posture was upright, his shoulders square as he continued looking around the mall.

“Yeah.” I licked the caramel drizzle from the spoon. “I yelled at him, and he disappeared.”

“I don’t like this.” Logan scrambled to his feet and picked up the shopping bags. “You can eat the rest in the car. We should get out of here.”

I was barely on my feet when Logan took my arm and led me away. He kept glancing over my shoulder as if he thought there was a chance in hell we would see the man again.

“Logan, do you know who that guy was?”

“No, I didn’t even see him.”

“But you seem tense.”

“Remember why you were in the hospital. Those criminals you killed might have relatives and accomplices. I don’t like that someone was watching you.”

I hadn’t thought of that. I hadn’t been afraid of dying before, but…I wanted to stay alive long enough to marry Logan and be his husband for a while. I walked faster.

“You really think someone’s out there to get me?”

“I don’t know. They can be after you or me. Maybe it’s just a random person who liked the way you look.”

“A perv, you mean.”

“Yeah.”

Well, fuck me. The son of a bitch. I tugged on Logan’s arm and pointed out the man watching us from the second floor as we neared the exit. He still had his camera out, snapping away—still aimed at me—us. “That’s him right there on the second floor next to those massage chairs.”

Logan locked onto the figure immediately. His brows drew together, and his grip on my arm tightened. “Fuck.”

“You know him?” I asked.

“Let’s go quickly.”

Why didn’t he answer me? Saving my breath, I ran a little to catch up with him so he didn’t pull my arm out of the socket. He didn’t let up his pace until we were at his rental. With four slashed tires.

“Goddammit.” Logan pulled his phone from his pocket while moving me behind one of the large stone columns.

“Are you calling Crowe?” I asked.

“No. The police.”

“Why?”

He didn’t answer me but spoke to whoever had answered his emergency call, telling them about the stranger who’d been taking photos of us and finding his car tires slashed. He identified who we were and his fear that someone wanted to retaliate for the hospital incident.

“Yes, I can stay on the line,” he said into the phone. “Just across from the mall? That’s perfect.” He stroked my cheek as if reassuring me. “They have a unit nearby, so they should get here fairly quickly.”

I frowned. Calling the police to handle my problems was not the biker way—notmyway. I handled my business when I felt threatened, and from Logan’s clenched jaw and the tension in his body, he clearly felt threatened.

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