I’m a bit of a stalker, I’ll admit. I haven’t always been this way. At one time, I was a normal forty-something-year-old man who dated the regular way. Awkward Tinder meetups. Lunch dates with stuffy businesswomen. Casual drunk fucks at nightclubs or bars. But no matter how much I “dated,” I was unsatisfied. I would grow bored of the woman mid-fuck because I’m a hard man to please.

Which is why I began something new last year . . .

No longer do I fish for women and hope I find a great catch.

Now, I hunt.

Something about the hunt makes the kill so much sweeter. Not an actual kill, of course. A metaphorical kill, if you will. I prowl in the shadows after meticulous searches where I learn about my newest interest. Her schedule. Her favorite restaurant. The way she smiles bright and brilliant for some and forced for others. It’s addicting, and now that I’ve started, I can’t stop. I eventually insert myself into their lives, make a move they can’t resist, and then they’re a good run for a few months.

I’ve perfected it.

One hundred percent fail proof.

The newest woman is named Olivia. Tall, blonde, bright-blue eyes. That’s my type. And, fuck, if she doesn’t have the longest legs I’ve ever seen. I can’t wait to lure her into my bed and have those perfect legs wrapped around my waist as I drive into her. I love it when they scream my name.

James. James. You’re a sex beast, James.

Tonight is the night where I make my move.

I’ve learned all there is to know about her.

We’re going to fuck. And soon.

Olivia climbs out of an expensive car and is met by the doorman to her building. He takes her things, and she lifts her chin in a confident way. Everything about her screams sex and power and perfection. Perhaps she could be the one. One day, I'll find the right "one" and settle.

“Hey, dude,” a young voice chirps from behind me. “She’s kind of a psycho. I’ve seen you around, hiding in the shadows, which I’ll admit is kind of creepy, even for me, watching her. Liv puts on a great face for the world, but behind closed doors, she’s a total bitch.”

Irritation rises inside me hot and fast. Getting caught isn’t something that happens. Ever. And now some teenage boy thinks he can fuck with something I’ve been working on for months?

Fuck him.

I swivel around, taking my eyes off the perfect Oliva and glower at him.

Except he’s not a him.

He’s a her.

A very, very, very short her.

My eyes skim over her youthful features. Too young for my tastes, but I take the moment to inspect her with a scrutinizing glare. Her eyes are big and amber, the color of honey. Thick black lashes blink at me, seemingly unafraid of my blatant staring. I skim past her admittedly cute upturned nose sprinkled with freckles.

Her lips though . . .

The moment she smiles, a little crooked, and reveals all her pearly whites, I blink in confusion.

Who is this girl, and why does she have me pinned down in this moment as though she is the hunter and I the prey?

Ridiculous.

“My dad is dating Liv,” she explains as snow begins to fall and dusts her purple beanie she wears on top of her head. From beneath the hat, dark red hair slides past her shoulders. Thick streaks of black are mixed in. What strange-colored hair. “I’m just doing you a solid,” she says, grinning again. Then, she does a small wave before pushing past me. “Peace out, stalker man.”

As though she holds an invisible rope, I find myself following her into the expensive building. Olivia is long gone, and I can’t find it in me to worry about that right now. Currently, I need to know who this girl is and why she has such power over me.

This is madness.

She wears an ugly yellow pea coat that hangs well past her waist, hiding her ass from me. Beneath the coat is a black-and-white polka-dot dress. The tights she wears with it are pink, and she finishes off the look with black combat boots.

What kind of weird-ass fucking outfit is she wearing?

And yet I continue to follow her.

She pushes a button on the elevator, and when it opens, we step inside. Her head bobs to a beat that doesn’t match the elevator music as she pushes 14 on the panel.

“I told Dad I wanted to live on the fourteenth floor because it’s technically the thirteenth floor if you actually count them.” She lets out a cute laugh. “And how cool is that? I live on the real thirteenth floor. I’m not superstitious, so it's awesome.”

Her babbling should be annoying, but her throaty voice, which I originally assumed belong to a boy, has me hanging on her every word. Sultry and seductive. Rich and decadent. Not high-pitched at all, but a little on the deeper, sexier, real woman kind of way.

“How old are you?” I demand, my voice cold and harsh, just like me. When I’m not participating in my hunting games and playing a part to get what I want, I’m kind of an asshole. So I’ve been told.

She arches a brow and smirks. “Eighteen going on old cat lady. Black cats are my thing. Told you I wasn’t superstitious. What is the magical number before you’re officially a cat lady anyway? I have four. Four is still normal, right? Like I’m not going to turn off potential love interests when Beavis, Butt-Head, Snoopy, and Hank come circling his ankles the moment he steps into my apartment, right? Right?”

I stare at her. Her mouth keeps moving, but I don’t hear any of the words. Just the sultry, seductive way she says them. My cock has taken an interest in this bizarre woman much sooner than my brain has. My brain thinks she’s a ridiculous, talkative, horribly dressed child.

So why am I following her?

The elevator doors open, and she walks through them, not at all frightened that some six-foot-three angry asshole in a power suit is prowling behind her, desperate for some unknown fucking reason to yank her hat off and touch her silky red-and-black hair.

“You’re officially the creepiest man I have ever met,” she chirps as though she meets creepy people all the time and befriends them. She digs into her deep coat pockets and pulls out an obnoxious mess of key chains. All for two keys. Insanity. Utter insanity.

“James,” I grunt. “James Darden.”

“As in the Darden Hotel across the street?” She turns and regards me. Her head cocks to the side as she inspects me.

“I know where you live now,” I blurt out. This is another reason why I don’t date the normal way. Normal isn’t even in my vocabulary. Structured and planned and rehearsed is because I say inappropriate shit sometimes.

She laughs and shakes her head. “And the cat lady is officially not the weirdest person on this block anymore. Congratulations, Darden, you’re the winner.”

Her wink is the last thing I’m gifted of her before she pushes into her apartment and shuts the door behind her.

What the fuck have I just gotten myself into?