Page 47 of Curvy Desire's Second Shot

Later that evening,as the sun dipped below the horizon, I found myself standing by the window, the curtains pulled back just enough to give me a view of the street below. Naomi was in the shower, the faint sound of water running in the background, and the apartment felt quiet—too quiet.

I scanned the street, my eyes moving from one parked car to the next. Most of them were familiar, but my gaze kept drifting to the spaces near the lot’s edge. It was empty now, but the image of the sedan was burned into my mind.

A flicker of movement caught my eye, and I straightened, my muscles tensing. It was faint, barely noticeable, but it was there—a shadow slipping between two cars near the edge of the building. My hand instinctively went to the bat I kept near the door.

I didn’t call out. Instead, I moved toward the door quietly, my heart pounding as I stepped outside. The cool night air hit me, and I shivered, more from adrenaline than the cold. The streetlights cast long shadows across the lot, and the faint hum of traffic in the distance was the only sound.

I approached the area where I’d seen the movement, my steps slow and deliberate. The shadows seemed to stretch and shift, playing tricks on my eyes, but there was no mistaking the faint scuff marks near one of the cars. Someone had been here.

“Who’s there?” I called, my voice low but firm.

The lot was silent.

I stepped closer, scanning the space between the cars. My grip on the bat tightened, but the area was empty. Whoever had been here was gone now.

When I returnedto the apartment, the shower had stopped, and Naomi was sitting on the couch, a towel wrapped around her shoulders as she scrolled through her phone. She looked up when I walked in, her brow furrowing slightly.

“Everything okay?” she asked.

“Yeah,” I said quickly, setting the bat down by the door. “Thought I heard something outside. It was nothing.”

Her eyes lingered on me, searching for a moment before she nodded. “Dinner’s ready when you are.”

“Thanks,” I said, managing a small smile as I joined her at the table.

We ate in relative silence, Naomi chatting occasionally about the recipes she wanted to try or the road trip ideas we’d jotted down earlier. I responded when I could, but my mind was elsewhere, replaying the events of the day. The car. The shadow. The faint scuff marks. It all felt too coincidental.

Later that night,as Naomi slept soundly beside me, I lay awake, staring at the ceiling. The apartment was dark, the only light coming from the faint glow of the streetlamp outside. The sounds of the city were distant, muffled, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that we weren’t as alone as we seemed.

I glanced at Naomi, her face peaceful in sleep, and my chest tightened. She’d come so far, worked so hard to reclaim her sense of safety and self-worth. I didn’t want to take that away from her—not unless I was absolutely sure the danger was real.

But deep down, I knew it was. The Fold wasn’t finished. Jared wasn’t finished. And as much as I wanted to believe we’d escaped their reach, the signs were there, clear as day.

It was probably nothing. At least, that’s what I told myself.

But I didn’t believe it.

Chapter Thirty-Five

Naomi

The café was quiet, the mid-morning rush having tapered off into a lull. I sat in my favorite corner booth, a steaming cup of tea in front of me and my notebook open to a fresh page. The comforting hum of soft chatter and the faint clatter of dishes filled the air, blending with the aroma of freshly brewed coffee.

Hudson was running errands and had insisted I wait for him here, promising he wouldn’t be long. I’d argued at first—I hated sitting idle—but he’d given me that look, the one that saidlet me do this for you, and I’d relented.

Now, as I sat there doodling idly in the margins of my notebook, I felt a sense of peace I hadn’t expected. The past weeks had been a whirlwind of danger and uncertainty, but moments like this reminded me of what we were working toward. A life beyond the chaos. A future that felt real.

The bell above the door jingled, and I glanced up out of habit, my eyes landing on a young barista carrying a small package. She scanned the room before approaching my table.

“Miss Ray?” she asked, her voice polite but hesitant.

“Yes?” I said, setting my pen down.

“This was left for you,” she said, handing me the package. “A guy dropped it off a few minutes ago. Said it was important.”

“Did he say who he was?” I asked, frowning.

She shook her head. “No, sorry. Just that it was for you.”

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