Page 38 of Love Me Stalk Me
One screen stays locked on her office, always.
It's not an excuse—it's security. It's my job. The feed shows her sitting at her desk, tablet in hand, shoulders slightly tense as she works through whatever crisis the morning has delivered.
That's what I tell myself, anyway.
But the truth is, I like watching her.
I learn her.
The way she smooths her hands over her hips when she's stressed—which I hate, because it means she's carrying too much, but also love, because my eyes are drawn there every damn time. Her fingers trace the curve of her body almost unconsciously, like she's reassuring herself she still exists amid the chaos.
She's got a body built to be touched. Held. And yet, she moves like she's constantly trying to shrink herself down. Like she doesn't want to take up too much space. Like she's apologizing for her very existence.
That pisses me off.
I don't get men like Evan.
Men who have a woman like Izzy and can't even see what they have. She's Italian, for fuck's sake. She's got hips, curves, softness in all the places a woman is supposed to. A body that's been celebrated in art for centuries, now treated like it's somehow wrong.
And damn, I'd love to sink my fingers into it while?—
I stop that thoughtimmediately.
I exhale hard, running a hand down my face. I need to get a grip. The stale air of the security suite suddenly feels stifling.
But still, it frustrates me.
Because she doesn't move like a woman who's comfortable in her own skin.
She moves like someone who's been made to feel like she should be smaller. Like she should take up less space, fit some kind of bullshit, unrealistic standard. Her body language betrays every criticism she's internalized, every disapproving glance she's absorbed.
Like she should have Amanda's shape instead of her own.
Amanda, who's all long limbs, harsh angles, no softness anywhere. Not that there's anything wrong with that—but that's not Izzy. That will never be Izzy, and it shouldn't have to be.
Izzy's got a body made for indulgence.
And men like Evan make women like her think they have to change.
That they're too much when they're already perfect.
And if anything—she's malnourished.
I knew she wouldn't eat this morning.
Even with Caleb telling her to.
And I was right.
Watching her eat that sandwich in the conference room made me feel things I didn't know how to deal with. The way her eyes closed briefly at the first bite, the small noise of appreciation she made without realizing it—it stirred something primitive in me.
Frustrated.
Possessive.
Like—if she won't take care of herself, I'll just have to do it for her.
The clock chimes 11 AM, the sound jarring in the quiet room, and I push up from my chair, forcing myself to move. Staying here, watching her all day, won't accomplish anything but feed this growing obsession.
