Page 61 of Stalker's Toy

I pull my coat tighter, hunching my shoulders against the chill.

My boots splash through puddles as I make my way down the sidewalk, my reflection rippling in the water.

I pause outside the cafe, peering through the foggy windows.

Larsa isn't here yet.

Part of me wants to turn and run, to retreat back to the safety of the flat.

But I force myself to push open the door, the little bell above it announcing my arrival.

The warmth and aroma of coffee envelop me.

I choose a small table in the corner, positioning myself so I can see the entire room.

Old habits die hard.

I order a black coffee when the waitress comes by,wrapping my hands around the steaming mug when it arrives.

The bell chimes again and Larsa breezes in, all bright smiles and bubbly energy.

She spots me and makes her way over, unwinding a colorful scarf from her neck.

"Mia! So good to see you out and about." She plops down across from me, shrugging off her coat. "I was starting to think you'd become a hermit."

I force a small smile. "Just been busy with work."

Larsa raises an eyebrow. "Mhmm. And does this 'work' have a name? Perhaps tall, dark, and brooding?"

Heat floods my cheeks.

Am I that transparent?

"I don't know what you're talking about," I mutter into my coffee.

She leans forward, eyes sparkling with mischief. "Oh come on, I've seen the way you look at Henrik Lindberg. Can't say I blame you—the man is sex on legs. But he's got a reputation, you know."

My stomach clenches. "What kind of reputation?"

Larsa shrugs, signaling the waitress. "Oh you know, typical tortured artist stuff. Mood swings, obsessive behavior. I heard he went through three assistants in a month because they couldn't meet his impossiblestandards."

She pauses to order a latte, then turns back to me. "Plus there are the rumors about his... proclivities."

I swallow hard. "Proclivities?"

Larsa lowers her voice conspiratorially. "They say he's into some pretty dark stuff. BDSM, knife play, you name it. A friend of a friend modeled for him once and said his studio was like something out of a horror movie."

My mind reels, images of Henrik's haunting paintings flashing through my head.

The unsettling beauty, the raw pain captured on canvas.

"That's all just gossip," I say weakly, though something deep inside me thrills at the thought.

Larsa shrugs again. "Maybe. But where there's smoke, there's usually fire. Just be careful, okay? I worry about you sometimes."

I nod, not trusting myself to speak.

If only she knew the half of it.

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