We’re on him.
I type back a quick reply.
Let me handle it.
Pushing my cart back toward the store’s receptacle, I dial Cecelia.
“Hey.”
“How is your day going?”
“Well, considering I only got here an hour ago, okay so far. What’s up?”
“I did call for good reason.” The irritation of her remark combined with the arrival of a new stalker is coming through my call, and I rip at my hair in annoyance before I lighten my tone. “A very good reason.”
“Oh?”
The man casually inches to the side of the store, nearing the corner as I take my time, my gait slow and unassuming. Being on the phone helps the illusion. It’s when I shove my cart away from me, crashing it into the others, and shift directions heading straight toward him, that I know he’s as green as they come. It’s fucking insulting with his skill set that he was the one sent to me.
“Date night,” I say, picking up my pace.
“Date night?”
“Yes. Date night,” I grit out, “a weekly ritual by couples to maintain intimacy. It’s a thing.”
I can hear the smile in her voice. “I’m aware.”
“I’ll go on a date with him,” Marissa chimes in the background.
“So, we can have one?”
“What did you have in mind?”
“I’ll take care of the details.”
The asshole turns the corner, his body tensing as if he’s ready to take off. It would be laughable—if I weren’t so pissed.
“Ne me fais pas te courir après. Tu ne vas pas aimer quand je te rattraperai.” Don’t make me chase you, you won’t like it when I catch up.
He pauses his walk. He’s listening. And he’s listening because he understands.
French.
Goddamnit.
“Tobias, who are you chasing?”
“An imbecile who took my shopping cart.”
“Small town, Frenchman, first impressions are important. You just got here, don’t make yourself a menace.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
Hot on his heels, the man leaps into a sprint, and I burst into motion.
“Date night will be at home. Until then, Trésor.”
After hanging up, I catch up with him quickly, my long runs paying off in spades when I grip the hood of the asshole’s jacket and yank him off his feet at the side of the building. Airborne, he yelps before he lands flat on his back in a thud on the concrete. After disarming him, I drag him behind me, the material of his slicker good aid in helping with the effort while I keep my eyes peeled for passing cars.
Much to my delight, in a town with a population shy of two thousand, there isn’t a single car coming in either direction—a perk of small-town living. My birds are already waiting behind the store in an idling sedan as I come into view, pulling the idiot behind me who grunts when I hit a patch of uneven pavement.
“Je t’ai dit de ne pas courir.” I told you not to run.
Once we’re safely out of view, I kneel down and search him for ID and credit him for having the good sense to leave it back at whatever hole he’s occupying. I hit paydirt when I retrieve a cellphone from his jeans.
“Now we speak in English.”
Silence.