“YOU ARE NOT A STALKER,” I told myself for the tenth time as I trailed behind the black town car on its way to the quaint downtown area of the seaside town I’d just arrived in. “You are simply following a lead,” I said out loud to no one.
I’d been telling myself this load of crap ever since I hopped on a plane to the state of Oregon earlier that day.
No, that was a lie.
I’d been telling myself this ever since I tore apart my office a month ago, looking for the long-lost flash drive I’d stolen from my short-term fling a year ago.
At first, it had been a dirty attempt to get back at Kim, a way to patch up the blows to my ego when I’d found her in bed with that overly tan dipshit of a guy.
In my downward spiral after losing my job, I’d foolishly thought that maybe she and I could have a future beyond the casual thing we had going on.
But that was the whiskey talking. In reality, I was using her as much as she was using me. We were going nowhere fast. But it didn’t mean I couldn’t take a little parting gift with me as I left. So, I’d stolen her flash drive—the one thing she prized above guys, shoes, and practically everything else in this world.
I hadn’t been surprised when she called me the next day, frantic.
“Where is it, Killian? What did you do with my flash drive?” she’d asked.
“What flash drive?” I’d replied innocently.
“Don’t play stupid with me, asshole! I know you took it.”
I’d let the little metal piece of hardware twirl between my fingers, a satisfied grin plastered across my face. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. Have you asked any of the other men who frequent your apartment? Maybe one of them will recall where it went. And, besides, don’t you always keep a backup?”
“You fucking jerk. I swear—”
I hadn’t stuck around to hear the rest of the conversation. After ending our call, I hadn’t heard from her again. I was sure she would never mention her little oopsie with her boss. No doubt a breach like that would end her career in an instant, and last I’d heard, she was still gainfully employed in the publishing world.
My revenge, however, had been short-lived, and as the world had moved on, so had I. Living on freelance work, I’d been bouncing around from one awkward job to another.
When I’d told Aaron Sanders that no one would touch me with a ten-foot pole, a part of me had been hopeful that I was wrong.
Nope.
My fall from grace had gotten around. It’d gotten around quick, and soon, I was public enemy number one. No one wanted me, not even a little.
It was definitely a low point in my life.
That was, until last month, when shit had hit the fan in a major way.
Scandal, the overnight success by Laura Stone, was all over the place—in every store, on every website. It was the most talked about book in years, partly because of its incredibly reclusive author.
Everyone wanted to know who she was, and I had the key to unlocking one of the biggest secrets of the year.
Thank you, Kim.
After combing through my apartment, I’d finally found it—the flash drive that would change my life. I had little to work with, but honestly, a name and address were all I needed.
Katelyn O’Malley.
I’d finally hit pay dirt.
So, now, here I was, in a small town on the edge of coastal Oregon, hunting down the story of my career.
Hopefully, I wouldn’t screw it up.
I watched the car I’d been trailing pull off the road, stopping directly in front of a nice restaurant. Having little time at the red light, I couldn’t see the two women as they exited, but at least I now knew where they were headed.
Now, it was all up to timing.
Not wasting a single second, I parked in a nearby lot, taking a precious minute to adjust my tie and run my hands through my dark brown hair and the bit of stubble that dotted my chin.
The clues I had from Kim’s flash drive had led me to the college town of Fremont. I had bits and pieces to figure out but mostly, I was on my own. I had known the author worked at the local college based on an email address I’d managed to hunt down on Kim’s hard drive, and before arriving, I had prepared myself for scouting out the place to find the perfect way to infiltrate her world.
And, once again, luck had been on my side.
As I’d sat at the airport bar, an hour before my flight departure time, trying not to talk myself out of going on this crazy journey, I’d happened to overhear a conversation that made my day.
“You should go give it to her right now!”
“Mom, that is a little creepy,” one of the women had said.
I’d turned my ear toward the booth behind me, suddenly interested. Writers were nosy. It was part of the job.
“If it means a book deal after all this hard work, then no, it’s not creepy at all.”
“I’ve already submitted it to her agency. That’s how these things work,” the daughter had pressed.
“I’ve got news for you, sweetheart. That is not at all how these things work. In the real world, you take every advantage you can. And, right now, you should start by taking this one. Go up to that woman, that Jane Sutton or whatever her name is, and tell her you are the next big thing.”
The name was what had struck a chord with me. I hadn’t stuck around to see if the wannabe writer actually found the balls to walk up to the big shot or not.
The last thing I’d wanted was to be seen earlier than necessary.
But I had wanted to have an upper hand, starting with this one.
Catching a glimpse of the well-known literary agent would have been ideal. But lurking around an airport was the quickest way to get put on the no-fly list, so I had done the next best thing.
I’d made a few phone calls.
Within minutes, faster than I could boot up my ancient laptop, I had gotten her travel plans, complete with hotel arrangements. It was amazing what you could learn when you said you were a florist trying to deliver a dozen roses but couldn’t find the recipient. Women would become putty in your hands.
From there, all I’d needed to do was stalk the hotel.
And, by stalk, I meant, investigate.
For professional reasons.
All of this sounded fucking creepy, and if I got caught, I had no one to back me up. No boss, nothing. No one had hired me to be here. It was my dime and my brilliant yet stupid idea.
But, after a year of trying to make it on my own, I was at my wits’ end. I was penniless with no prospects of employment, and I was the laughingstock of my profession.
I needed to get back in the game.
No, I needed to own the fucking game.
And this was my way back in.
The hotel Jane Sutton had picked was slightly out of my price range, but upon arrival in Fremont, I’d decided proximity was key, so I’d plunked down my credit card and bought a room at the same place as the literary agent I was hunting down. Unfortunately, I’d missed seeing her check in and had to dig even further into my pockets to bribe the guy at the counter to tell me her room number and plans for the evening.
And that was how I’d ended up here.
In the middle of a parking garage, checking myself out in the mirror of this rental, trying to convince myself I wasn’t going crazy.
Because this whole idea was flat-out insane.
The first thing I noticed about the restaurant was the noise.
It wasn’t a place you would take your significant other for a romantic evening out. The restaurant was teeming with activity. Large groups of people laughed and carried on energetic conversations while loud music played in the background.
I could see the allure if you were young and single, looking for a good time with friends or a place to pick up someone for the night. It was the kind of place I would go. But what I couldn’t understand was why a literary agent would take her high-dollar client here. Maybe this elusive author with no name was as crazy as her fans believed her to be.
I mean, I’d read her book. And some of those scenes? I’d thought I was experienced in the bedroom, but there were things in that novel that even I hadn’t thought up. If she was, as I suspected, a wild and insane sort of girl, it would make this job a bit easier.
And a hell of a lot more fun.
Taking a leisurely stroll around the bar, I claimed an empty stool and waited for the bartender to notice me. From here, I could see virtually the entire place.
Perfect.
The subtle art of people-watching took time, and if done properly, I’d be able to pinpoint my target without drawing any unnecessary attention to myself.
I needed the upper hand after all—time to observe them, study them.
Yeah, okay, it was stalking.
But I wasn’t a psychotic ex with intentions of harming anyone, so I let it slide. A twinge of guilt tore at my gut as I realized that wasn’t an entirely correct statement. By revealing this author’s identity, I would in fact be hurting her, but after a year of living off of ramen and taking any freelance job I could get, I was desperate.
“What can I get you?” a cute brunette with a perky smile asked.
I hadn’t expected a female bartender. The happy surprise suited me just fine.
Smiling back, I answered, “Whiskey sour. Thanks.”
She stayed put, fixing my drink in front of me. I took a minute to appreciate the view.
“Just get off work?” she asked, making idle chat, most likely in an effort to increase her tip.
“Still on the clock,” I replied. “Hoping to meet up with a couple potential clients.”
Lies. All lies.
“Kind of a crazy place for a business meeting, don’t you think?” she said, nearly shouting over the music playing on the dance floor.
I shrugged, leaning forward. “I didn’t pick it.”
“Your clients must be a bit of a party animal then,” she said, placing my finished drink on a napkin down on the bar. Her fingers lingered, like a silent invitation.
“I’m getting that impression.”
I handed over my credit card, and she took a quick glance down at my name.
“I’ll open a tab for you, Killian. Sounds like you’ll be here a while.” A sweet smile played upon her lips as she looked up at me. “Maybe you’ll be here when I get off?”
“Maybe.”
She trotted off, stashing my credit card with the rest of the evening tabs, as I looked back to get a glimpse of the crowd around me.
The place was packed.
How the hell was I going to find anyone, let alone someone I didn’t even know, in this crowd?
Part of me—the tired, jet-lagged, seriously horny part—wanted to cash in at that moment. Give up and go back to my hotel. Maybe return a few hours later to pick up the hot bartender. After all, I did know where this mystery woman worked.
But that wasn’t really who I was.
So, let’s get to work.
Grabbing my drink, I swallowed it down in one solid gulp. The alcohol burned as it slipped down my throat and went straight into my belly, filling me with liquid courage.
“Looks like you could use another,” the hot bartender said, returning, as I’d hoped.
“Sure could. Hey, I could use a favor.”
That coy smile of hers had my mind racing, and suddenly I knew exactly what I needed to do.
“Anything.”
“Great.” I grinned. “I’m having a problem tracking down this client. I’ve never actually met them in person, and as you guessed, they like to party. I have a feeling the two of them might already be here, three sheets to the wind. Do you think you could help me find them?”
Her face scrunched to the side. “Well, I’ve seen my fair share of guys in suits tonight. Can you describe them?” she asked as she began fixing me another whiskey sour.
“That’s the thing, gorgeous. I’m not looking for suits. I’m looking for two women.”
“Oh.” Her voice deflated instantly, the distinct sound of jealousy replacing her flirting tone.
I continued, in hopes of salvaging the situation. “I don’t really know much about them, but the one woman is a real ballbuster—or so I’ve heard. Maybe mid-twenties. New Yorker?”
Her eyes lit up. “Carries a Birkin Bag?”
“A what?”
“A Birkin bag. It’s, like, one of the most expensive purses in the world. She came by the bar, asked for the manager, and had us put it in the restaurant safe. Can you believe that?”
I really didn’t care what kind of purse it was, only that she was here.
And identifiable.
“Could you point her out?”
“Sure,” she responded, placing my second drink next to me. “She’s on the dance floor. Or was. That’s why we locked up her precious bag. She and her friend—coworker maybe—they’ve been dancing for twenty minutes or so.”
I leaned forward, grabbing her face. I planted a huge-ass kiss on her painted red lips. “Thank you.”
She instantly blushed, licking her lips, as I pulled back.
“Anytime,” she answered seductively.
I had no idea what her name was, and I’d be lying if I said I cared to know. But, one thing I knew for sure, that bright red lipstick would be making an appearance all over my naked body tonight.
After soaking up a bit more whiskey, I headed for the dance floor.
Or, as I liked to call it, the seventh circle of hell.
As a rule, I generally tried to avoid places that had any form of dancing involved.
Fox-trot, waltz, krumping—I hated it all, and to top it off, I was bad at it. A deaf amputee would probably have better rhythm than me.
It was better for all mankind if I just stayed away.
Far, far away.
But, sometimes, in journalism, one was forced to enter situations that were deemed dangerous, maybe even life-threatening.
War zones, hostage situations…dance floors.
I deserved a Pulitzer for this.
The closer I got to the crowd, the louder things became. Catcalls, shouts, and whistling all flooded my ears as I circled, trying to find the dancing duo the bartender had told me about.
I had little to go on, except for hair color and dress. She’d said the woman who was with the pushy New Yorker had long blonde hair and was wearing black.
That narrowed it down to a couple dozen females.
It didn’t take much time for me to realize something was going on in the center of the dance floor.
A dance-off?
No, this wasn’t high school.
As I got closer, it appeared to be a couple entertaining the crowd with their dance moves, causing the cheering and ear-piercing whistling I’d heard earlier.
Finding an empty spot, I decided to melt into the crowd and watch the pair for a while. It gave me time to scan everyone without awkwardly bumping into anyone by trying to move through everyone.
“She’s amazing, huh?” a female voice said from my right.
My eyes narrowed in on the two dancing in the middle of the circle. The guy was huge, obviously someone who spent a lot of time in the gym. His biceps were probably double the size of mine, and I wasn’t a scrawny guy by any means. He lifted his partner with ease, high above his head, making the women in the crowd all squeal with envy.
I noticed the black dress almost immediately.
And the mile-high legs.
“She is,” I answered, not bothering to turn my head.
“She’s always loved to dance. Ever since I can remember. The first time we went out dancing in college, she joked, saying she’d come out of the womb like this.”
I was barely listening to the woman as she shouted her nonsense next to me. I was too busy checking out the hot blonde in front of me.
She checked off every box. Long platinum-blonde hair, sexy black dress, and damn if she didn’t fit the personality of a woman who could write scorching-hot love scenes.
She somehow had everyone around her mesmerized. There were still stragglers on the edge of the dance floor, doing their own thing, but almost every set of eyes was fixated on the couple dancing in the middle. The sexual tension between her and her partner was enough to ignite a match in a rainstorm.
Wait, had that woman said something about knowing her?
Looking to my left, I saw nothing but a short guy staring hungrily at the woman in black. Turning to my right, I found her.
Dressed in a plain black business suit, she was pretty in an understated way—natural with hardly an ounce of makeup on, her long blonde hair pulled into a ponytail at the back of her neck. She smiled fondly rather than open-mouthed, like most of the people standing around.
“So, you know her?” I asked, knowing it was now awkward to try to strike up a conversation, considering I’d all but ignored her before.
Her eyes darted over to mine. “Um, yeah,” she replied, her voice a few degrees chillier than before.
What did she say? What did she say?
“College, huh? Did you attend locally?”
“Yes.”
Man, I’d screwed this up. My one in, and now, she was giving me the cold shoulder. I assumed this was the literary agent, keeping tabs on her crazy client and apparently friend.
Now, wasn’t that an interesting twist?
She turned away, her arms going squarely across her chest, effectively ending our short conversation.
Damn, I needed a miracle to break through that armor.
And, at that moment, as if God himself had heard my plea, my miracle was delivered—in the form of one large drunk guy.
As the music ended and the crowd began breaking apart—some making a sprint toward the bar while others made space on the floor—a big, hairy man, holding a beer the size of my head, turned suddenly, looking for his girlfriend as he called out for her, and knocked the adorable literary agent off her heels.
I leaped into action.
With my arms stretched out, I managed to catch her just in the nick of time. Wide-eyed and panicked, she looked up at me with a mixture of fear and surprise.
“You.”
“Hey.” I smiled.
“Oh my gosh, Kate!” the dancing queen in the sexy black number shouted. She was at our side in record time.
“Kate?” I repeated, confusion bouncing around my alcohol-infused brain.
As in Katelyn O’Malley?
“I’m okay, Jane. Just a little stumble.”
My head jumped from the woman in my arms to the one standing next to me.
Oh, shit.
I couldn’t believe it.
That understated mouse of a female who had been standing next to me was Laura Stone.
The Laura Stone.
“Can we buy you a drink? I’m sorry, but I didn’t catch your name,” Jane said as I helped the still-frazzled Kate over to their table.
Believe me, she wasn’t the only one.
“Sure, that’d be great. Whiskey sour. And the name is Killian Townes,” I said, nearly stumbling over the false last name. How many lies did that make tonight?
Jane, with expert efficiency, flagged down a waitress and had our drinks ordered within seconds. I was starting to understand the sophisticated, ballsy attitude the bartender had described of her.
The moment her friend had fallen, she’d taken action, getting people out of the way and assessing Kate from head to toe.
It was almost motherly.
But my elusive author?
The one I’d fantasized over while lying in bed at night.
The one I’d imagined would be easy to charm.
Wrong.
So wrong.
I’d never been so far off in my life.
Since my chivalrous rescue on the dance floor, Kate hadn’t said a single word to me—or anyone else for that matter. While she was wearing black and did in fact have blonde hair, she was not the vision I’d pictured for a best-selling erotic author.
Quite the opposite, in fact..
But then what the hell did I know?
Before, when Jane had been dancing the night away, she’d openly talked to me. She had been the one to approach me—even if it was sort of awkward. But, now, she was nervously picking at her fingernail, avoiding eye contact, as she asked me about myself.
“What do you do for a living, Killian?” she asked after our drinks had arrived.
“I’m a, uh…” Shit, what do I say? “An editor,” I finally blurted out.
It was obviously the wrong choice by the looks on their faces. The light, carefree smile Jane had been sporting suddenly went rigid as her keen eyes scanned me, searching for deceit.
“A technical editor,” I elaborated. “Mostly complex contracts, medical forms—that sort of thing. But I’m currently between jobs. Transplant from the East Coast.”
A collective sigh of relief was felt across the table as they both relaxed back into the booth.
“That sounds rather boring,” Kate announced.
The sound of her voice surprised me. I wasn’t sure I’d heard it since my dashing display of heroics.
“It does, doesn’t it?” I replied, wishing I’d picked any other profession. But, nope, it’d had to be technical editing, the most mundane job on the planet.
Or at least, I assumed it was.
I had a friend back in New York who was a highly successful technical writer. Those little manuals you’d find tucked inside the box with your new TV or phone? He actually wrote stuff like that. It was a harder job than it sounded, I was sure. Taking a tedious subject and making it…well, less tedious? It was probably why he drank.
But I guess he had a job. Unlike me—the ex-journalist who now stalked mysterious authors in small town America.
“It pays the bills, I guess,” I finally said, choosing the easy way out. No explanation needed. “So, what do you two do—to pay the bills, that is?”
A nervous exchange happened between them, so brief that it was almost unrecognizable. But I saw it—that moment when the two friends looked at each other, maybe realizing they hadn’t sorted this part of the ruse out.
“I’m in publishing,” Jane simply stated.
“And I work at the college here in town,” Kate said.
Nothing more was offered, but then again, I hadn’t given much to start with.
That needed to change if I was going to leave here with more than an impending hangover.
The trouble? I didn’t know how to interact with a woman like Kate.
She was the opposite of everything I sought out in a woman. Shy, quiet, and with so much vulnerability, I could almost smell it on her.
It wasn’t that she wasn’t attractive or interesting.
I could see a raw beauty under those timid eyes, and it did spark a desire within me to see what lay beneath. Maybe a hidden secret or a disturbing past?
This was definitely going to take longer than I’d anticipated—if I wanted a good story, and I did.
No, I needed a good story—if I ever wanted my career back.
“What do you do at the college, Kate? Are you a professor?” I asked, turning my full attention to her.
She seemed slightly taken aback at first but quickly began laughing.
Both of them did.
I looked on, feeling clueless.
“Sorry, inside joke,” Jane said.
“Care to elaborate?”
Jane turned to Kate, who was still smiling.
I liked the way she looked when her face lit up. It was like a rose blooming. Unexpected, yet you couldn’t imagine it any other way.
“It’s just that, whenever I’m asked what I do at the college, it’s followed up by that same exact question.”
I nodded. “So, I take it, you don’t teach?”
She shook her head. “No, I work in Student Services. Not nearly as exciting, is it?”
“That sounds rather boring,” I said, repeating the words she’d spoken back to her.
She laughed, feeling the tension between us finally break. “Yes, I guess it does.”
It was fairly simple after that. A little flirting, a couple of drinks, and by the end of the night, I had Katelyn O’Malley’s phone number. Not nearly as hard as I’d imagined.
And twice as fun.
It wasn’t until I got back to the room and was celebrating my success with a late-night order of room service that I realized I hadn’t thought about the waitress since that timid little blonde fell into my arms.