March 25
It’s been a month since my dinner with Delamonte, and I haven’t heard a peep from them about the brand ambassador selection. Brady assures me they’ll choose soon, but he’s been saying that for weeks. At this point, I’m convinced I didn’t get it.
On the bright side, I’m still gaining followers, and I’ve gotten two new brand deals in the past week. They don’t pay as much as Delamonte would’ve, but every bit counts. Also, I’m almost at 930K followers, which is wild and a little depressing. It turns out all I needed to do was to get a boyfriend to be more interesting [insert sigh].
Speaking of which…I posted another photo of Christian the other day. The same one I snapped of him when he was on his call (he still hasn’t gotten over losing to a unicorn in my poll. I told him he would’ve won had he shown his face, which went over as well as you’d expect). Not my most creative work, but I’m still nervous about my stalker seeing a photo of us together and snapping.
I know Christian said we need to draw him out, which makes sense. And I trust him to keep me safe. I gave him the stalker’s old letters and his team is…doing whatever it is security people do with creepy anonymous notes.
Still, I have a bad feeling this could all go wrong VERY quickly.
I don’t want to let the stalker situation rule my life, and I WON’T.
But…I’m going to stay put in my apartment and work on my blog until I get an update from Christian. Just in case.
It’s better to be safe than sorry.
Daily Gratitude:
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Food/grocery deliveries
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Cute loungewear
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Building security
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“Get dressed. We’re leaving in an hour.”
I gaped at Christian, who stood in my doorway in a crisp black button-down and dark jeans. It was my first time seeing him in anything other than a suit, and the effect was equally devastating in a completely different way.
“Excuse me?” I tried not to stare at the way his shirt stretched over his broad shoulders and muscular arms.
“We’re leaving in an hour,” he repeated. “There’s an art gallery opening I need to attend. Dress code is dressy casual. I presume you own an appropriate outfit.”
I was wearing a crop sweatshirt and shorts. The chances of anyone dragging me out of my apartment when I’d already changed into my sleepwear were next to zero.
“This wasn’t on our calendar, and I’m busy.” I kept my hand on the doorknob, barring him from entering.
He couldn’t just show up and demand I go somewhere with him last minute. I needed time to mentally prepare for outings that involved extensive socialization with strangers.
Christian fixed me with a dubious stare. “Yes, you look positively swamped with…” His gaze coasted over my shoulder, and my skin warmed when I remembered what he’d find. A pint of Ben & Jerry’s, The Devil Wears Prada onscreen, and the remnants of a takeout salad. “Dairy and fashion magazine tyranny. Miss your old job already?”
“I watch it for the outfits.” I squeezed the doorknob for strength. “I’m sorry, but next time you want me to accompany you to an event, give me more than an hour’s notice.”
Christian appeared unfazed by my pointed suggestion. “I didn’t know Richard Wyatt would be at the opening until thirty minutes ago.”
Wyatt. The client he’d hoped to sign at the fundraiser. “I
thought you already closed the deal.”
“Ninety percent. He came back with concerns after reviewing the contract, and I’d prefer to address them in person tonight.” His brows dipped with approval. “When was the last time you left your apartment? You’re wilting.”
My mouth parted in shock at the utter rudeness of his comment. “I am not wilting. I am merely…hibernating.”
Wilting was a word used to describe dying plants, not a healthy human being. I’d never been more insulted, though he wasn’t entirely wrong.
I’d only left my apartment once in the past week, and that was to check on Christian’s plants. We’d gotten over our argument in his office last week, and I had both my keys to his place and my watering responsibilities back.
I’d been subsisting on smoothies and food deliveries, which wasn’t good for my wallet or waistline, and my skin craved the natural warmth of sunshine.
But every time I attempted to go outside, my mind spiraled to the note and all the places my stalker could’ve gotten to me.
I’d depleted the burst of courage I’d gotten the morning after I found the note, and I had no idea how to replenish
it.
“Call it whatever you want. The result is the same,”
Christian said, clearly unimpressed by my euphemism. “Fifty minutes to get ready.”
“I’m not going.”
“Forty-nine minutes and fifty-seven seconds.”
“Nothing’s changed in the past three seconds. I’m. Not.
Going.”
“This was our deal.” His cool voice sent a rush of indignation down the back of my neck. “You accompany me to events; I pose in your photos and act as your boyfriend. You don’t want to cut off the momentum when it’s going so well, do you?”
He was right, but that didn’t mean I appreciated Christian telling me what to do.
“Are you blackmailing me?”
His smile was all lazy charm and amusement. “Not blackmailing. Persuading.”
Now he liked euphemisms. “Same thing in your world.”
“You’re learning.” Christian tapped the face of his watch. “Forty-four minutes.”
Our eyes clashed in a battle of defiance versus indifference.
I had no desire to leave my apartment. I could live here for the rest of my life and be happy. It was safe, quiet, and fully equipped with movies, ice cream, and internet. What more could a girl want?
Human company. Sunshine. A life, a voice whispered.
I gritted my teeth. Shut up.
Make me. I could practically see the disembodied voice sticking its tongue out.
Arguing with myself and sounding like a fifth grader.
That had to be a new low.
“Forty-two minutes, Stella.” Christian’s eyes flickered with the soft glow of rising danger. “I have a business deal
to close, so if you insist on holing yourself up like a scared hermit, tell me now so I can terminate our deal.”
Scared hermit. The words slithered down my spine like a taunt.
Was that how he saw me? Was that who I was? Someone so thrown off by one anonymous note that I let it rule my life?
Where was the girl from the morning after, the one who’d marched out of the house and vowed not to let fear win?
She was as ephemeral as morning rain and dreams of perfection. Always fighting to live and always dying by the blade of my anxiety.
The doorknob slipped against my hand.
“Fine.” The word rushed out before I could change my mind. “I’ll go.”
If only to prove that I wasn’t as weak as the world thought I was.
No smile, but the glow of danger dimmed until mere embers remained. “Good. Forty minutes.”
My lips pressed together. “You are, without doubt, the most insufferable countdown timer that’s ever existed.”
Christian’s laugh followed me into my room, where I flicked through my closet before settling on a silky camisole under a blazer, jeans, and velvet flats.
Apprehension tore at my nerves, but I kept my expression neutral as I reentered the living room.
Cool, calm, collected.
Christian didn’t say a word when he saw me, but his stare pressed against my body in a way that warmed me from the inside out.
We rode to the gallery in silence except for the soft classical music piping from the speakers. I was grateful he didn’t try to make conversation. I needed to gather all my energy for a night out when my body had already been in home relaxation mode.
My nerves intensified when the gallery came into sight.
I’m fine. You’re fine. We’re fine.
I was with Christian, and my stalker wouldn’t attack me in the middle of a public party.
I’m fine. You’re fine. We’re fine, I repeated.
Luckily, the gallery opening was less crowded than the fundraiser. There were three dozen guests max, encompassing a mix of creative and high society types. They milled about the stark white space, talking quietly over glasses of champagne.
Christian and I circulated the room, making small talk about everything from the weather to cherry blossom season. I pitched in where I could, but unlike at the fundraiser, I let him take the lead.
I was too tired to be witty and charming, though it did
feel nice to be in public again for the first time in a week.
I stuck by Christian’s side until Wyatt arrived with his wife.
“You do what you have to do,” I said. “I’m going to check out the rest of the exhibition.”
There was no way I could listen to them talk business without falling asleep.
“Interrupt me if you need me.” Christian leveled me with a dark stare. “I mean it, Stella.”
“I will.” I won’t. The thought of interrupting someone mid-conversation gave me hives. It was awkward and rude and I would rather throw myself into an ice pool in the dead of winter.
While he spoke with Wyatt, I made my way through the exhibit one piece at a time. The artist Morten (first name only) specialized in abstract realism. His paintings were lush, sometimes haunting, and always beautiful. Bold strokes of color depicted the darkest of emotions: rage, envy, guilt, helplessness.
I stopped in front of a canvas half-hidden in the corner. In it, a gorgeous young girl stared off to the side with a
wistful expression. Her face was so realistic it could’ve been a photograph had it not been for the streaks of color dripping down her cheeks and onto her abstract torso. The streaks coalesced into a dark pool of water at the bottom of the painting, while her black hair curled away from her face and faded into a rendition of the night sky.
The piece wasn’t as big or flashy as the other paintings, but something about it tugged at my soul. Maybe it was the look in her eyes, like she was dreaming of a paradise she knew she’d never reach. Or maybe it was the melancholy of it all—the sense that despite her beauty, her life was more dark days and lonely nights than it was rainbows and sunshine.
“You like this one.” Christian’s voice startled me from my reverie.
I’d been staring at the painting for so long I hadn’t realized he’d finished his conversation with Wyatt.
I didn’t turn around, but the heat of his body enveloped mine at the same time goosebumps peppered my arms. It was a paradox, much like the man standing behind me.
“The girl. I…” Relate to her. “Think she’s beautiful.”
“She is.” The soft, meaningful dip in his voice had me questioning whether he was talking about the painting or something else.
A seed of awareness blossomed at the prospect, and it only grew when he rested a hand on my hip. It was so light it was a promise more than a touch, but it thrilled me all the same.
I couldn’t remember the last time I wanted a guy’s touch.
“Did you close the deal?” The catch in my voice sounded painfully obvious in this quiet corner where nothing existed except for heat and electricity and anticipation.
The bright lights dimmed, then faded into blackness when my eyes fluttered shut at the slow slide of Christian’s hand up the curve of my hip and onto my waist.
His soft rumble of satisfaction vibrated through my body and settled low in my core.
“Yes.” He grazed the other side of my waist with his hand before that one, too, rested against my side.
I shouldn’t have closed my eyes. In the absence of visual distraction, he consumed me. My world had narrowed to the weight of his hands on my skin, the scent of him in my lungs, and the velvety caress of his words as they worked their way down my neck, over my aching breasts, and to the pulsing need between my thighs.
My earlier annoyance toward him disappeared, replaced with a desire so fierce and unexpected it left me breathless.
“Are you still thinking about the painting, Stella?” Knowing amusement deepened into something darker, more wicked.
The brush of Christian’s mouth against my neck sent another wave of goosebumps scattering across my skin.
A soft moan rose in my throat and burst, unbidden, into the thick, languid air.
Mortification flushed my skin, but that, too, evaporated when he slid his hand from my waist to my stomach. His knuckle rasped down the silk of my top, from just below my breastbone to just above my jeans.
The pulses of desire intensified, so hard and insistent my thighs clenched in an attempt to ease my need.
It only made it worse.
I was seconds away from unraveling, and Christian had barely touched me.
A shiver skated down my spine at the thought of what he could do if he actually tried.
The curve of his lips branded my neck with male satisfaction. “I’ll take that as a no.” He dipped his thumb, ever so briefly, in the tiny gap between my stomach and the waistband of my jeans.
“Open your eyes, Stella. The photographer’s watching.”
My eyes flew open right as I heard the distinctive click of a camera shutter.
The event photographer.
The sound came from my left, which meant the angle was perfect for capturing an intimate couple moment between me and Christian without showing Christian’s face, which was buried in the right side of my neck.
An icy bucket of realization doused the fire in my blood.
This wasn’t real. None of this was real, no matter how good of an actor Christian was.
This was business, and I would do well to remember that.
I shrugged him off me and finally turned to face him.
“Nice job.” I smoothed a hand over my front, trying to wipe away the lingering memory of his touch. “That was the perfect setup. Do you think the photographer will let me post the picture? With credit, of course.”
Christian’s eyes narrowed. A faint flush colored his sculpted cheekbones, but sardonic coolness laced his reply.
“I’m sure he will.” “Perfect.”
Awkward silence filled the previously charged air before his gaze drifted back to the painting over my shoulder. “You don’t like it just because it’s beautiful.”
It wasn’t a question, but I welcomed the change in topic. It was safer than whatever had transpired between us a few minutes ago.
Already, the breathless, lust-driven woman who’d melted beneath a simple touch seemed like a fever dream gone awry.
I didn’t lose my mind over men. I didn’t think about their hands on me or wonder how their kisses would taste.
“It’s the piece that speaks to me most,” I said after a brief hesitation.
I ached too much for the woman in the painting to consider it a favorite, but it entranced me in a way few
things did. It was like the artist had crawled inside my mind and splashed my fears onto canvas for all to see.
The result was equally liberating and terrifying. “Interesting.” Christian’s tone was unreadable.
“What about you? What’s your favorite piece?” A person’s taste in art revealed a lot about them, but he hadn’t shown more than a cursory interest in any of the gallery’s works.
“I don’t have one.”
“There has to be one you like more than the others.” I tried again.
His stare could’ve frosted the inside of a volcano.
“I’m not an art enthusiast, Stella. I’m here purely for business, and I have no desire to waste time assigning preferences to objects that mean nothing to me.”
Okay, then. I’d struck a nerve, though I had no clue
which one.
Christian wasn’t an expressive person by nature, but I’d never seen him shut down so fast. All traces of emotion had disappeared from his face, leaving only practiced blankness behind.
“Sorry. I didn’t realize art was such a touchy subject,” I said, hoping to warm the sudden chill in the air. “Most people love it.”
At the very least, they didn’t hate it.
“Most people love a lot of things.” Christian’s tone said all he needed to say about his thoughts on the subject. “The word is meaningless.”
Don’t worry, Ms. Alonso. I don’t believe in love.
His words from the night of our arrangement floated through my mind.
There was a story there, but extracting blood from stone would be easier than getting that story out of him tonight.
“Not an enthusiast of art or love. Noted.”
I didn’t look at another piece, and Christian didn’t speak to anyone else. Instead, we walked toward the exit, bound
by an unspoken agreement that it was time to call it a night.
It wasn’t until we stepped outside that his shoulders relaxed.
He slanted a sideways glance at me during our walk to his car. “It feels good to leave the house, doesn’t it?”
I sucked in a lungful of cold, fresh air and tilted my head up at the sky. The moon shone high and bright, bathing the world in silvery magic.
The night lurked with dangers, but those shadows seemed to disappear whenever Christian was around.
Even when he was moody and intractable, he was a source of security.
“Yes,” I said. “It does.”
