Page 64 of Love Me Stalk Me
"But," I add, voice firm, "I'll be close. I'm going to stay in the employee area, watching the feed. If you need me—if things escalate—just say my name."
She nods, exhales, then straightens herself, bracing. I watch as she transforms before my eyes—shoulders back, chin up, expression smoothing into professional competence.
Before we leave, she quickly straightens a stack of reports on her desk. I glance down at what appears to be sales projections with handwritten notes in the margins. The figures are precise, detailed, with trend analyses that look more like something an accountant would produce than a store manager. She's clearly been tracking numbers meticulously, correlating data points that most people wouldn't even notice.
"You do all this?" I ask, gesturing to the reports.
She glances at them, then shrugs like it's nothing. "Corporate's projections always miss the mark. They don't account for local trends or repeat customer preferences. I track everything myself."
I lift an eyebrow, impressed despite myself. "Seems thorough."
"It has to be," she says, not registering it as a compliment. "Last quarter we outperformed every other store in the region by almost forty percent because I adjusted our inventory based on my own forecasts instead of following corporate's model."
We walk through the employee corridor together. I notice how several staff members stop to ask her quick questions as we pass. They defer to her naturally, but there's none of that artificial respect people give to bosses they don't actually admire. They genuinely seem to value her input, and she answers each query with a decisive confidence that's at odds with how she carries herself around Evan.
I pull up the feed on my phone, tracking the movement inside the personal shopping suite. The bright display shows multiple angles, clear enough to see facial expressions, body language.
Izzy leans over to get a better look.
Her breast brushes against my arm, and I go completely rigid. The soft pressure sends a jolt through me.
Then, as if that wasn't enough, she places a hand on my forearm. Her fingers are warm through thefabric of my shirt.
Jesus.
I hold my breath, fighting every single urge in my body. My blood runs hot, a rush of heat that's impossible to ignore.
She notices the way I stiffen. I just hope she can't tell how absolutely hard my cock is getting for her right now. The reaction is immediate and intense.
She pulls back. "Oh gosh, I'm sorry," she says, cheeks going pink. "I just...didn't know you could pull that up on your phone."
I force myself to breathe. Then I give her a slow smile.
"I absolutely can."
She nods, clearing her throat, looking anywhere but at me. "I guess you're always watching."
I tilt my head. Smile a little wider.
"I absolutely am."
She exhales, straightens herself again, then steps onto the floor.
I watch the feed. At first, things seem fine. Izzy does what she does best—smooths everything over, handles the situation, keeps things professional.
She greets Monroe, listens to his very unimportant concerns, nods in all the right places. But I also notice something else—she's tactfully steering him toward items she clearly pre-selected. Even from the feed, I can see how she subtly positions herself between him and the staff, creating a buffer. She's protecting her people while still doing her job.
I force myself to relax. Maybe this'll be?—
No.
Of course not.
Because then it happens. He plays it so fucking well.
He positions himself just right. Hand hovering behind her. Foot angled in front of her. A perfectly choreographed accident.
She backs up, right into his waiting hand.
