I slide into my Mercedes, the familiar leather seat doing little to calm the jitters still buzzing through me from the biker's bold, sexy stunts—paying for my coffee, my books, and then that cryptic "I*will* see you again" before he roared off.
Tchaikovsky's Waltz of the Flowers picks up where it left off, the strings soft and lilting, but my heart's pounding too hard to feel soothed. I toss The Grid: Book 2 and Song of Russian Ice and Secrets onto the passenger seat, my fingers gripping the steering wheel as I pull out of the bookstore lot.
His promise not to follow me home echoes in my head, but I'm freaked out, half-convinced I'll see that sleek black motorcycle in my rearview mirror any second.
The boulevard stretches out, the city lights starting to flicker on as dusk settles. I keep glancing at the mirrors—side, rear, side again—my eyes darting to every shadow, every glint of chrome that might be him. My stomach twists, and I hate how paranoid I feel, like some naive girl who didn't realize she was being tailed all day.
How did I not notice him at the coffee shop until he paid?
Or in the bookstore, blending into the background like a ghost?
I was so caught up in my own head, in Tchaikovsky and my books, I was oblivious to my surroundings.
Naive. The word stings, but it fits.
I turn onto my street, my grip on the wheel tightening as I scan the road behind me.
Nothing.
No rumble of a motorcycle, no flash of leather or helmet. Just the quiet hum of my Mercedes and the fading strings of the music. He kept his word—he's not here. I pull into my driveway, the automatic gate closing behind me, and let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding. My heart's still racing, but it's sinking in: he's gone, at least for now. I sit there for a moment, engine off, the silence loud without Tchaikovsky's strings. My books sit untouched beside me, and I can't help but wonder how I let this guy—a total stranger—get under my skin so easily.
I grab my bag and books, step out, and lock the car, glancing over my shoulder one last time. The street's empty, just the soft glow of streetlights and the distant hum of traffic. I head inside, the click of my door locking behind me feeling final, but my mind's still spinning. I was so unaware today, lost in my own world, and it's unsettling to think how easily he slipped into it. Dropping my books on the kitchen counter, I mutter to myself, "Get it together, Elise." But as I kick off my shoes, those hazel eyes and that low, certain "I *will* see you again" linger, making me wonder if I'm ready—or not—for whatever move he makes next.