Page 8 of The Wrong Husband
Nope. No way, am I letting that happen. ‘Course I’ll let him know about my growing attraction to his sister—just not yet.
“I’ll keep the surveillance going and report back.” I hang up and settle back in my seat to wait.
My stomach grumbles. I skipped lunch, not wanting to vacate the parking spot I found near the hospital, and I’d give my right arm for some coffee to help me stay awake. But this is not the first time I’ve been on a solo observation job.
Itisthe first time I haven’t had anyone backing me up as a base team. It’s only me—and frankly, I’m glad.
I feel greedy for every single opportunity to catch a glimpse of her, so the physical discomfort I’m going through is worth it.
I move around and find a more comfortable position in my seat. Those years on recon missions have trained me to keep watch without falling asleep.
Still, when morning dawns and she leaves the house, I’m relieved. EvenIhave limits to my endurance. Only, I’d never vacate my post—not as long as she’s in there.
She’s wearing a sunny yellow dress with a denim jacket and sandals today. And instead of her oversized backpack, she has a crossbody bag slung between her breasts. Hmm. I’m glad she’s going out to enjoy her day off. She needs the downtime.
I wait as she heads down the sidewalk. Good thing, too. Because she suddenly stops, pivots and scans the road.
Thankfully, I’m parked at the top of the street, so she shouldn’t be able to make out my figure. Still, the fact that she looks around tells me, I need to be more discreet in the future.
She’s nearly caught me twice now. Once could’ve been chance. Twice feels like something else.Could I have slipped up on purpose?Some reckless part of me wanting her to see me—to stop hiding, to finally speak to her, to tell her the truth? No. That’s not possible.
I’ve only been watching her a few weeks. Not nearly enough time to grow attached. And yet… I’m not acting like myself. I’ve handled riskier assignments without so much as a blink. Never once, have I let personal feelings interfere. Never once, have I begun to care for the person I’m tracking.
But this isn’t an assignment. It’s a favor to James. That’s what I keep telling myself. I’m doing this for him. To watch out for his sister.
And that’s exactly why Ican’tcross that line. He trusted me. I won’t repay that trust by acting on something as stupid—and dangerous—as attraction.
Finally, she turns and keeps walking.
Only once she’s gone, do I let myself breathe.
After she rounds the corner, I get out of the van, lock it, and follow—just in time to see her vanish down the next street.
She reaches the crosswalk and, as she waits for the light, taps her chest three times. Familiar ritual. I’ve seen her do this before—nervous tic, or something deeper?
The light turns green. She crosses.
Twenty minutes later, she steps onto Primrose Hill High Street.
She heads to the bookshop called The Sp!cy Booktok. I give it another ten minutes, then make my way down the street. I stop in front of a book display in the window. I feign interest in the book title—The Unwanted Wifeby L. Steele—then let my gaze wander across the inside of the store.
She’s at the shelf featuring books on sale. She’s in profile, but I can make out the smile on her face. Her shoulders are relaxed. She runs her fingers down the spines of the books on the middle shelf.
A shiver curls down my spine.
Then she stops at a book, partially extracts the volume, and… I can imagine her curling those slender fingers around my cock.
The blood drains to my groin, and I groan aloud. I need to get a grip on my imagination. She pulls off her hair tie, moves to put it in her purse, but it slips to the floor.
Her thick auburn hair flows around her shoulders; I can imagine the whisper of the strands over my skin. My thigh muscles bunch. My blood pressure shoots up. I feel dizzy with longing and shake my head to clear it.
Then, because I’ve stood there long enough and don’t want to attract attention, and because she’s moved deeper into the store, and I reckon she’s preoccupied and won’t notice me, I step inside. The bell over the door tinkles. The assistant behind the counter is busy with someone else. Good. The less people who see me, the better. I pull down my baseball cap to avoid my features being captured by the security cameras inside.
I head for the secondhand section and locate the sparkly hair tie on the floor. Before pocketing it, I lift it to my nose and sniff: a trace of roses; deeper notes of jasmine; an underlying strain of vanilla. My already hard cock lengthens further. I want to roll around in her scent like a rutting canine.
My heart leaps in my chest. I feel like a five-year-old who’s been told Christmas comes early this year. I have something of hers.With me.
I close my fingers around the hair tie, very aware that my behavior is not normal. That I’m acting like someone obsessed. That I have already crossed the line between surveillance and having a personal interest in my subject—some might call it stalking—and there’s no going back.
