Page 8 of Stalked
“Looking at me like you want to slap me and kiss me all at the same time.”
I step back, needing air that doesn't smell like him. “You're confusing disgust with desire.”
“Am I?” He reaches out, his fingers brushing a strand of hair from my face before I can react. “Because I don't think I'm the only one feeling this... whatever it is.”
I take another step back, trying to regain some control over this situation. “Are we done here? I have places to be.”
“Actually,” Vane says, his posture shifting as he slides his hands into his pockets, “I wanted to ask you something.”
I raise an eyebrow, waiting.
“Prom.” He says it like it's obvious. “You going?”
The question catches me off guard. “What?”
“Prom,” he repeats, his gaze steady on mine. “I want you on my arm.”
I let out a surprised laugh. “Are you serious right now? After everything I just said, you think I'd go to prom with you?”
“Why not?” His confidence is infuriating. “We'd look good together.”
“That's your pitch? We'd look good together?” I roll my eyes, ignoring the flutter in my stomach. “Wow. Compelling argument.”
“You know there's more to it than that.” His voice softens. “Come on, Lia. One night. What's the worst that could happen?”
I wrinkle my nose, feigning disgust even as I consider it. “I'll think about it.”
“You will?” He looks genuinely surprised.
“I said I'll think about it. That's not a yes.”
I move to walk past him, but his hand shoots out, catching my wrist. Before I can protest, his other hand dips into my jacket pocket.
“What are you—” I start, but he's already pulled out my phone.
“Passcode?” he demands, holding it just out of my reach.
“Absolutely not.”
“Fine.” He shrugs, then starts typing combinations. To my horror, the screen unlocks after his third attempt.
“How did you?—”
“0422. Your birthday. Not exactly Fort Knox security.” His fingers move quickly across the screen. “There. My number's in your contacts now.”
Before I can snatch my phone back, he presses call on his own contact. A second later, a ringtone sounds from his pocket.
“And now I have yours.” He hands my phone back, a triumphant grin on his face. “I'll be in touch.”
“I won't be answering your texts, you know that, right?” I call after him as he walks away, sounding more confident than I feel.
Vane turns, walking backward. “We'll see about that.”
I roll my eyes and turn toward the exit. Once I push through the double doors into the cool evening air, I finally release the breath I've been holding. My fingers tighten around my phone, the device feeling like it weighs a hundred pounds.
I glance down at the screen, where his contact information now sits. Vane Blackwood with a green heart emoji he must have added. The absolute audacity.
“Delete it,” I mutter to myself, thumb hovering over his name. “Just delete it and be done with it.”
