Page 44 of Moth to a Flame

An option that isn’t really an option at all. Despite being dangerous and scary, I like Landon too much to talk to another man likethat.

Sigh.

There’s only one solution to my problem.

Warn him.

He’ll visit me again, I’m sure of it. When he does, I’ll tell him to watch his back.

Unless my stalker gets to him first.

He won’t. He can’t.

Landon will be okay. He has to be.

The store is quiet this late morning. So quiet, without Rosemary and Mojo scraping his paws on the wood floor.

They left less than a minute ago, and the silence is already getting to me. I was the one who pushed her out, told her to go deliver one of our customer’s her tablet personally.

We could’ve called the delivery service we use sometimes, yet I insisted she should go herself. Walk Mojo while she makes the hour-long round trip.

She refused until I explained that she’d be doing it for me. That way, Lester won’t win. I won’t be held back bymy fear and be chaperoned my entire life.

He’s in prison. He’s there to serve his thirty-year-long sentence. Every second of it.

Fuck him. Fuck every fear I’ve ever had.

The books I read are far scarier than them. Like the book I’ve just finished reading for our book club this Sunday.

It’s way scarier than anything Lester has ever done to me.

I was right about the plot twist, in case you were wondering. Brawn, the guy in the book, messes up Frida’s doses. He comes on the cut he made on her left breast, fills it with his seed, and grabs it.

Her heart doesn’t beat beneath his palm, and while he’s sad about killing her, he’s also sort of happy. He freezes her body, then takes her out to fuck her whenever he wishes.

His version of happily ever after.

Creepy. Definitely creepy, although…Yeah, also kind of romantic.

And scary. Landon is scary too.

Not Lester.

This, being in my store with my Jigsaw in broad daylight, is child’s play. I should be able to stay here by myself.

Besides, it’s not like I’m really alone. Foot traffic is lighter at around eleven in the morning, sure, but there’s still light outside. The street isn’t empty.

The memory of Clayton’s eyeballs pops up, and surprisingly, I’m not scared of that either.

My Jigsaw is secured safely in my leggings’ concealed pocket. No one can see it under my oversized pink tunic. It’s there nonetheless.

Always.

I’m fine. Really, I have this.

Until a large, dark figure appears in the street and steals my breath from me.

The tall man in light jeans and black, long-sleeved Henley pushes past the door to my store.

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