Chapter Twenty-Two

A few days later, the sole remaining paparazzo tried to break into my garden by climbing over the gate. Perhaps he was trying to photograph my house through the windows, or maybe he hoped to catch me naked or something—I don’t know. Anyway, both the wall and gate are about six feet high. He wasn’t the fittest specimen, so aside from creating a ruckus and falling on his arse, not a lot happened there. I called the local police, who came out and had a word with him. Trespassing is a civil offense, not a criminal one, so there wasn’t much else they could do.

Tom was still staying with me most nights. I didn’t mind that at all, as long as he didn’t mind me rising early to take my frost pictures, which he didn’t. After the first time, he actually got up with me and had a lovely cooked breakfast waiting by the time I was done.

The images I captured were beautiful and ephemeral, but I was slowly running out of new things to do with the frost.

I would need a new project soon, and I had a few ideas that I was stewing over.

The remaining paparazzo seemed determined to catch us doing something newsworthy. He was becoming more brazen, often walking a few paces in front of me or us to film us from the front, or calling out invasive and rude questions. He would just generally get in our faces as we went about our business. It felt like a battle of wills, and I had no idea why he was so fixated on us. We intentionally didn’t do anything interesting in public. We wore the same outfits every day and we never spoke to him.

Tom’s bet was a great help with ignoring his intrusive questions; I do have a somewhat competitive nature and I really hate to lose. I mean, I’m okay losing at chance games, but when it’s my own actions that determine winning or losing . . . then, yeah, I get mad at myself for losing. No way was I going to let Tom win our bet, no matter how fun losing might be!

At first I was furious every time the bastard photographer asked me about Darren. I came pretty close to blowing my bet, but Tom had developed a habit of pushing me up against the inside of the door as soon as it closed behind us and kissing me senseless. I guess to remind me that I was his now.

Unfortunately, we couldn’t really talk to each other with the pap walking that close. When it looked like he was intending to tail us the for the duration of our walk, Tom texted someone. Five minutes later a police car arrived and—I was later told—spoke to the man. Apparently stalking is defined as any unwanted attention that happens two or more times that makes you feel pestered and harassed. With two incidents now reported, the local police threatened to arrest him if he continued to bother us.

I was sure he’d only be given a slap on the wrist; I’d read of serious stalking cases where dangerous stalkers faced no real consequences, but I was hopeful that he wouldn’t want the hassle of being arrested, questioned, held in the cells, and then having to show for a court appearance.

He left us alone for the rest of that day, but appeared again the following morning—although he kept his distance this time.

That night we watched the weather report before heading to bed. It said temperatures would plummet the next day and we’d have snow for three. It’s all very well to say that it would be cold, but you haven’t felt cold until you’ve lived on the coast!

We shared an evil look and began a plan to keep the photographer as cold as possible. Payback would be a bitch—for him.

He could park on the road at the end of our lane but not in our lane, because it was too narrow. Hence why I had to park in Diane’s driveway to have my car in sight of my house. He could photograph us from that distance. If he saved the space overnight, he could park directly opposite and wait until he saw us to get out and take pictures. We doubted he’d try to take them through the car windows, but just in case, we made a plan to only go outside when it was snowing heavily, meaning he’d have to get fairly close to see us through the snow.

We planned to freeze him out, quite literally. Tom can be rather diabolical when he puts his mind to it.

It was fun, actually. The snow was heavy almost all day, so about every fifteen minutes we’d go outside and walk from one house to the other. After doing this a few times, he left the shelter of his car and took up a position on our lane. We stayed inside, keeping an eye on him through the blinds.

Five minutes after he would retreat to his car, we’d appear again. Then again fifteen minutes later, being quite outrageous—running, laughing, kissing in public. We knew he wouldn’t be able to properly photograph any of it in such heavy snow.

He emerged from the car again and took up a position opposite Diane’s house, determined to capture us. Once again, we stayed inside.

He was well wrapped up, but he looked freezing cold standing out there, hands shoved deep into his pockets. He hopped from foot to foot to keep warm!

Just as he gave up and returned to his car, we emerged again. He hadn’t quite made it back to the car. I saw him hesitate as he took his camera out from under his coat, and then he looked between us and his car.

He decided to return. He ran toward us, so Tom and I ran to my house, making it back inside before he stopped running. He couldn’t have any taken unblurry pictures.

We collapsed against the door, laughing at our small victory. He evidently decided to wait us out again. He put his camera back into his coat to protect it.

I looked out into my small walled yard, where the arctic wind couldn’t disturb too much snow. I saw about six inches had accumulated on the garden table.

“We’ll be snowed in if this keeps up much longer!” I called to Tom, who came up behind me and wrapped his long arms around me.

“I can’t see a problem with that,” he said, stooping slightly to kiss my neck.

I relaxed back into him.

I was almost always willing and ready. I closed my eyes in anticipation.

Tom slipped his hands up under my sweater and cupped my breasts, squeezing them gently through my bra and making me sigh with contentment.

He pulled the bra up and over my breasts.

Just then, a loud knock came at my front door.

We reluctantly broke apart and I quickly sorted my breasts back into order before we went to answer it.

I had no clue who would be out in this dreadful weather. Most people would call or text, surely. I could only imagine it was Diane or one of my other neighbors.

I was wrong—it was our stalking paparazzo.

Tom stood just behind me. When he saw who our mystery caller was, he stepped closer and put a protective hand on my shoulder.

“Why are you doing this?” the photographer demanded.

I wasn’t going to reply. I didn’t need to anyway—apparently he wanted to rant. At least he didn’t have his camera out.

“All I’m trying to do is earn a crust. But you . . . ! You wear the same clothes day after day, making my photos almost worthless. Now you’re playing games, trying to get me to freeze to death! What is wrong with you?”

He did seem close to tears, which almost made me feel sorry for what we had done. Then I remembered his obnoxious behavior and questions. He had no problem trying to goad us into rash actions, so why should we feel sympathy for him?

“You spend your days planning how to intrude into other people’s lives, and you’re wondering what’s wrong with us?”

“If I didn’t do it, someone else would.”

I shrugged. “Then let them.”

“This is my career!”

“But it doesn’t have to be! You chose to stand out there to try and get a picture of us. We didn’t make you. If you’re cold, it’s your own fault. If you don’t like it, become a wedding photographer.”

I actually thought he might burst into tears, but evidently he still had his pride. He turned and stalked away, surreptitiously swiping at his eyes as he went.

I did feel bad as I closed the door behind him. It didn’t matter how awful he had been to us, I didn’t enjoy making him cry.

“Come on.” Tom drew me away with the hand on my shoulder.

I sighed deeply, and Tom pulled me into his arms.

“I’m sorry you had to witness that.”

“We did that to him.”

“I would argue that he did it to himself. He’s just mad at us because we won’t play his game, but that’s just semantics. We have something much more important to discuss.”

“We do?” I looked up at him, unable to think what it could be.

“Yes. You just lost our bet. You need to choose a sex toy for me to try on you.”

My cheeks turned bright red.

“Bugger!”

“Is that a request, darling?” he murmured in my ear.