Chapter Twenty-Seven

MAGNOLIA

It’s been a week since Grant busted out the salon window, and it’s also been a week since texts from the number with the 617 area code we initially believed to be a mistake have started coming in daily.

Each message only ever contains one word—a different word each time, but just one, nevertheless.

The first one came the night of the window: Mine.

The subsequent messages have been along the same vein, things like idiot, whore, cunt, and so on. I told Simon the first time it happened, and I thought he was going to go postal. He was crazed and manic, pacing and roaring like a caged animal, but the minute he saw how badly he was scaring me, he reined it in and held me in his big, strong arms.

I wanted to block the number, but Simon made the point that if we leave it and ignore him, maybe it will draw him out or cause him to send something self-incriminating, something that proves it’s him. I was on the fence about that plan, but my appointed victim advocate agreed with Simon. Just to be safe, we made sure the police were aware of the situation.

We even tried Googling the number, but all we found out was that it was a cell phone—duh—and a prepaid one, no less, which explains the Boston area code.

That brings us to today. Simon and I are on our way to get a prepaid phone for me so I have a way to communicate without having to look at the messages from Grant.

Simon cruises through the Target parking lot until he finds a nice, shady spot to park in. “C’mon, pretty girl, let’s get you a phone.” He hops down from the truck and races around to my side to help me down.

I don’t care what anyone says, chivalry will always be sexy.

“You wanna stop and get a pretzel to share?” he asks, like he read my mind.

I tilt my head up to him and bat my lashes. “Yes, p-please. Cinnamon sugar?”

“Works for me.”

We detour to the café, and Simon orders our pretzel and a large Icee for us to share. While he fixes our Icee—half blue raspberry, half cherry—I secure us a little two-seater table. Simon plops down across from me right as the cashier walks our pretzel over.

I watch as Simon breaks off a piece and tosses it in his mouth. Smirking, he licks the sweet cinnamon butter from his fingers. “Sweet, like you.” He groans quietly, and I swear, I almost die.

After we finish off the pretzel, Simon grabs us a buggy while I snag one of the cup holders and a buggy wipe. With a clean handle and our Icee perched on the side of the cart, we work our way back to electronics, stopping in the dollar spot, the office supply section—for Simon—and the makeup section—for me, of course.

By the time we roll back to electronics, our buggy is half full, most of it impulse purchases. We scan the stock of prepaid phones and settle on a cheap little Samsung. It doesn’t have all the bells and whistles, but it has enough.

I start to head toward checkout, but Simon drops a hand to my shoulder. “Mind if we look at one more thing?”

“Of c-course not.”

“Great.” Pushing the buggy, he heads over to the home section, stopping dead center in the main aisle. He grips the cart handle so hard his knuckles turn white from the pressure…releases…grips again.

Gingerly, I lay my right hand on his arm. “Simon, are you o-okay?”

Instead of telling me he’s okay, he says, “Don’t freak out, okay?” Right, because when in the history of the universe have those words ever kept someone cool, calm, and collected?

Regardless, I steel my nerves. While I hope he’s not about to dump me, I know I’ll survive it if he does—after all, I’ve been to hell and back.

“You’ve been staying with me for a while now,” he starts.

Oh God. He’s about to ask me to move out. “I…I c-can start l-looking for—”

He presses his index finger to my lips, silencing my nervous babble. “Why don’t you let me finish, pretty girl?” Not trusting myself to speak, I nod. “As I was sayin’, you’ve been staying with me for a while, and we never really made any firm plans about our living arrangements, but I’d like to.

“Having you in my space has transformed it from a house to a home, but I don’t want you in the guest room anymore—hell, you already sleep in my bed most nights, but I want you in my bed every night. I want your toothbrush on my vanity. I want your makeup cluttering my counter. I want your smell-good shit in my shower, and I want your clothes in my closet.”

My eyes glaze over and I trip over my words. “Y-y-you d-do?” I feel dizzy. How is it that this man—this perfect, yummy, gorgeous, down-to-earth man who could have anyone—wants me?

“Very much so. You know why I call you Goldilocks?” he asks, skimming his thumb across my cheekbone. I shake my head back and forth. “At first it was your hair, all sunshine and golden goodness, but now, it’s because you’re just right for me.”

“O-okay, then. I l-love you, S-Simon.”

“Love you too. Now, since you’ve agreed to call my home yours, I want you to pick out a few things for it. That way I see you in every room.”

My heart melts. “R-really?”

“Really.”

Simon trails behind me as I wander up and down the aisles, adding a few throw pillows, a couple of picture frames, and a quilt for the bed into our buggy.

We make our way to check out and bicker good-naturedly about who’s going to pay, finally agreeing to split it fifty-fifty. Out in the parking lot, Simon unlatches the gate to the bed of his truck, and we load our bags into the mesh net suspended from each side. I take the buggy to the cart return and head back, expecting to find him in the truck, getting it cooled down, except he’s not. I mean, the truck is running, but Simon is standing outside the passenger side door, waiting to open it for me and help me in. Such a gentleman.

He drops a kiss to my forehead. “Wanna go home and break in that quilt?” he asks. So, not a total gentleman.