My phone lies on the counter. I’ve already turned it off and taken out the battery, so it’s probably safe now.

“Damn,” says the man on the other side of the counter. He works for the cell phone carrier, whose bright orange logo is printed on his blue polo shirt, just over a plastic name tag that says “Tom.”

He’s working at the moment so he shouldn’t be swearing, but I guess this is a sight that would even shock a veteran phone-carrier-stand guy.

“So can you help me?” I ask again, my gaze darting between Tom and my seven-year-old nephew, Marcus, who’s currently too busy zig-zagging between annoyed shoppers to realize I want him to just stop for a moment.

I just want some peace and quiet while Tom fixes my phone. God. Is that too much to ask?

“I don’t know,” Tom says.

“Huh?” I stare at Tom. Is this guy reading my mind?

“I’m sorry, but I don’t know,” Tom repeats. “This account is not yours. It’s under your dad’s name. So because it’s his account, he can technically do whatever he wants to it.”

“So you’re saying this is legal?” I can’t believe this.

“Yeah.” Tom shrugs.

“So you’re saying he can track my phone and find out where I am at all times, without my consent and even without my knowledge, and it’s perfectly okay?” I ask, the words coming out like bullets. I’ve been preparing this ammo all day, since I found out about what my dad’s doing.

“Well…” Tom takes a sharp breath. “I don’t know about ‘okay,’ because this is totally fucked up if you asked me.” He pauses, then he gives me a look of sympathy. “But it’s completely legal.”

“Marcus!” I yell over my shoulder. “Let go of that lady’s bag!”

Marcus stares at me with a mischievous grin as he lifts up the bag over his head.

Oh no, this can’t be good. “Marcus,” I warn him.

Without saying anything, he lets the bag go so it hits its owner with a loud thud against her hip. As he cackles, she recovers from her shock and lifts her angry glare from Marcus’ face to mine.

“I’m so sorry,” I say, putting on what I hope is an irresistibly forgivable face.

Marcus’ victim huffs a hateful snort and continues walking down the wide mall corridor, blending in with the Saturday crowd.

“Marcus,” I say as I glower at him, “come here.”

It’s bad enough that I have to face the horde of weekend shoppers, but of course that’s not the worst thing about today. My mom and my sister are in town to take care of some last-minute wedding stuff, so I’m stuck with Marcus all day.

I mean, I love my nephew, but he’s a destructive tornado. He’d spread the chaos throughout the mall, one shopper at a time, if I let him roam free.

I take his little hand in mine and hold on tight. He’s not going anywhere.

It would’ve been fine had I stayed home like I’d planned, but then I learned a horrible truth about my family, and I couldn’t just do nothing.

Here’s what happened: I was telling Mom about the time I’d gone out clubbing until 3 a.m., and she said Dad had stayed up all night waiting for me to come home.

That sounds fine, right? That makes my dad seem like a normal, concerned parent who may just be a tiny bit too protective of his daughter.

The problem? Dad wasn’t even supposed to know I’d gone out.

We live in different cities now. He’s at home in Las Vegas, where I used to live. And I’m in San Francisco, where I’m attending college at the University of California.

After a little digging, Mom admitted that Dad had been tracking my phone, which is outrageous.

I’m not a teenager anymore—hell, a lot of parents respect their teenagers’ privacy enough to not track them 24/7. I’m about to graduate medical school and start my internship program. I’ve even gotten matched with a local hospital, and my first day will be in July.

“I don’t think I need to spell out what the problem is, but I don’t want my dad to keep tracking me. What can I do?” I ask Tom.

“Well, you can’t keep using his account. You’ll need your own account. I can set that up for you right now if you want,” Tom offers, in an obvious attempt to close the sale.

Normally, I’d ask more questions about the phone plans. But with Marcus pulling my hand and trying to lick it, I’m a little more preoccupied than usual. Tom’s probably going to get a big, fat commission from whatever products he sells me.

It doesn’t matter. This new account may be under my name, but all my credit card bills go straight to Dad. So he’s literally paying for his wrongdoing.

I chuckle to myself as I swipe the credit card, although it’s not as if he’s even going to notice the extra expense. Two phone bills instead of one—that’ll really hurt him.

My dad has been the Chief of Medicine at Hopedale Hospital for decades. He’s good at doing his job and managing his finances, so he’s sitting on a pretty big mound of money. He’s not going to even feel this.

But I’ll bet he’s going to miss the ability to track my every movement. He’s probably already called Mom in panic, demanding to know what’s going on. Typical.

After plenty of assurances from Tom that Dad won’t be tracking me anymore, I put my new phone in my bag. It has a different number and everything now.

“Can I walk on my own please, Aunt Bee?” Marcus asks, looking up at me with almond eyes that look just like my sister’s. He blinks innocently and smiles sweetly. A little too sweetly.

I grip Marcus’ hand tighter, worried he’s going to attempt jailbreak.

Ugh, my palm is getting clammy, I think to myself. Hannah needs to buy her son one of those kid leashes.

Marcus tugs gently on my hand and says, “I’m sorry I played with that lady’s bag.” His eyes, wide as saucers, plead with me.

Damn it. He knows how to play his cards. “Fine,” I say with a sigh as I let go of his hand, “but stay close to me, okay? Don’t leave my side.”

“Yes, Aunt Bee,” Marcus says, a picture of purity and guiltlessness.

But as soon as the door opens and we step outside the mall building, Marcus throws his skateboard on the ground and rolls away from me, snickering as his blond hair floats in the wind.

Damn it, Hannah. Was it really a good idea to give this kid a skateboard?

Marcus needs a different hobby, like stamp collecting, or anything else that limits his potential for destruction.

Marcus looks over his shoulder at me, and I scream, “Look out!”

I can only watch in horror as he slams into a parked car.

“Oh, no. Oh, shit.” I sprint toward the car.

The door opens and a man steps out of the car. A pair of dark aviator sunglasses perches on the bridge of his nose while his dark, lustrous hair shifts with his self-assured, precise movements.

I hope he’s not angry, but I think he is.

The black cotton of his shirt stretches snugly across his back as he crouches down to give Marcus a hand. Despite the situation, I can’t help but notice how broad and solid his body is. He has the kind of muscles that have been carved by determination and discipline.

I want to see what he looks like underneath that shirt—the lines and the ridges, the ripples underneath his golden skin whenever he moves…

Jesus, Aubrey, I scold myself in my head, this is so not the time to be zoning out, fantasizing about a random guy. He may look like a hottie from all the way over here, but he may be a nottie from up close. And more importantly, he probably hates your guts for letting your nephew run wild right now.

The guy is still standing there talking to Marcus. I can’t hear him from where I am, but Marcus’ expression grows more pitiful by the second. It’s not long until he starts crying.

Oh, man. That looks like a nice car, too. I hope Marcus didn’t do too much damage to it. If any adult in my family knows about this, they’re going to blame me. And by the way the car owner turns to look at me now, he’s probably blaming me, too.

Why does this parking lot have to be so big? It’s going to take me forever to reach them.

I lift up my hand and wave to signal to the guy that I’m coming over. “Sorry!” I yell out.

But he’s not waiting for me. He twists to say some parting words to Marcus, then he gets back into his car and drives away, without even waving back at me.

Okay. I didn’t expect him to be all warm and friendly after what Marcus did. But I have to say, it was pretty rude of him to leave without acknowledging me at all. Ugh, rich guys can be so arrogant sometimes.

Still, I guess I’m lucky he didn’t ask me to cover the cost of fixing whatever damage Marcus caused to his luxury car.

Marcus is still crying when I reach him, and there are some scratches on his palms.

Great. Now I have to explain those to Hannah. That’s going to be fun.