Daily Gratitude:
Food/grocery deliveries
Cute loungewear
Building security
*
“Get dressed. We’re leaving in an hour.” I gaped at Christian, who stood in my doorway in a crisp black button-down and dark jeans. It was my first time seeing him in anything other than a suit, and the effect was equally devastating in a completely different way. “Excuse me?” I tried not to stare at the way his shirt stretched over his broad shoulders and muscular arms. “We’re leaving in an hour,” he repeated. “There’s an art gallery opening I need to attend. Dress code is dressy casual. I presume you own an appropriate outfit.” I was wearing a crop sweatshirt and shorts. The chances of anyone dragging me out of my apartment when I’d already changed into my sleepwear were next to zero. “This wasn’t on our calendar, and I’m busy.” I kept my hand on the doorknob, barring him from entering. He couldn’t just show up and demand I go somewhere with him last minute. I needed time to mentally prepare for outings that involved extensive socialization with strangers. Christian fixed me with a dubious stare. “Yes, you look positively swamped with…” His gaze coasted over my shoulder, and my skin warmed when I remembered what he’d find. A pint of Ben & Jerry’s, The Devil Wears Prada onscreen, and the remnants of a takeout salad. “Dairy and fashion magazine tyranny. Miss your old job already?” “I watch it for the outfits.” I squeezed the doorknob for strength. “I’m sorry, but next time you want me to accompany you to an event, give me more than an hour’s notice.” Christian appeared unfazed by my pointed suggestion. “I didn’t know Richard Wyatt would be at the opening until thirty minutes ago.” Wyatt. The client he’d hoped to sign at the fundraiser. “I thought you already closed the deal.” “Ninety percent. He came back with concerns after reviewing the contract, and I’d prefer to address them in person tonight.” His brows dipped with approval. “When was the last time you left your apartment? You’re wilting.” My mouth parted in shock at the utter rudeness of his comment. “I am not wilting. I am merely…hibernating.” Wilting was a word used to describe dying plants, not a healthy human being. I’d never been more insulted, though he wasn’t entirely wrong. I’d only left my apartment once in the past week, and that was to check on Christian’s plants. We’d gotten over our argument in his office last week, and I had both my keys to his place and my watering responsibilities back. I’d been subsisting on smoothies and food deliveries, which wasn’t good for my wallet or waistline, and my skin craved the natural warmth of sunshine. But every time I attempted to go outside, my mind spiraled to the note and all the places my stalker could’ve gotten to me. I’d depleted the burst of courage I’d gotten the morning after I found the note, and I had no idea how to replenish it. “Call it whatever you want.
The result is the same,” Christian said, clearly unimpressed by my euphemism. “Fifty minutes to get ready.” “I’m not going.” “Forty-nine minutes and fifty-seven seconds.” “Nothing’s changed in the past three seconds. I’m. Not. Going.” “This was our deal.” His cool voice sent a rush of indignation down the back of my neck. “You accompany me to events; I pose in your photos and act as your boyfriend. You don’t want to cut off the momentum when it’s going so well, do you?”
He was right, but that didn’t mean I appreciated Christian telling me what to do. “Are you blackmailing me?” His smile was all lazy charm and amusement. “Not blackmailing.
Persuading.” Now he liked euphemisms. “Same thing in your world.” “You’re learning.” Christian
tapped the face of his watch. “Forty-four minutes.” Our eyes clashed in a battle of defiance versus indifference. I had no desire to leave my apartment. I could live here for the rest of my life and be happy. It was safe, quiet, and fully equipped with movies, ice cream, and internet.
What more could a girl want? Human company. Sunshine. A life, a voice whispered. I gritted my teeth. Shut up. Make me. I could practically see the disembodied voice sticking its tongue out.
Arguing with myself and sounding like a fifth grader. That had to be a new low. “Forty-two minutes, Stella.” Christian’s eyes flickered with the soft glow of rising danger. “I have a business deal to close, so if you insist on holing yourself up like a scared hermit, tell me now so I can terminate our deal.” Scared hermit. The words slithered down my spine like a taunt. Was that how he saw me? Was that who I was? Someone so thrown off by one anonymous note that I let it rule my life? Where was the girl from the morning after, the one who’d marched out of the house and vowed not to let fear win? She was as ephemeral as morning rain and dreams of perfection. Always fighting to live and always dying by the blade of my anxiety. The doorknob slipped against my hand. “Fine.” The word rushed out before I could change my mind. “I’ll go.”
If only to prove that I wasn’t as weak as the world thought I was. No smile, but the glow of danger dimmed until mere embers remained. “Good. Forty minutes.” My lips pressed together.
“You are, without doubt, the most insufferable countdown timer that’s ever existed.” Christian’s laugh followed me into my room, where I flicked through my closet before settling on a silky camisole under a blazer, jeans, and velvet flats. Apprehension tore at my nerves, but I kept my expression neutral as I reentered the living room. Cool, calm, collected. Christian didn’t say a word when he saw me, but his stare pressed against my body in a way that warmed me from the inside out. We rode to the gallery in silence except for the soft classical music piping from the speakers. I was grateful he didn’t try to make conversation. I needed to gather all my energy for a night out when my body had already been in home relaxation mode. My nerves intensified when the gallery came into sight. I’m fine. You’re fine. We’re fine. I was with Christian, and my stalker wouldn’t attack me in the middle of a public party. I’m fine. You’re fine. We’re fine, I repeated.
Luckily, the gallery opening was less crowded than the fundraiser. There were three dozen guests max, encompassing a mix of creative and high society types. They milled about the stark white space, talking quietly over glasses of champagne. Christian and I circulated the room, making small talk about everything from the weather to cherry blossom season. I pitched in where I could, but unlike at the fundraiser, I let him take the lead. I was too tired to be witty and charming, though it did feel nice to be in public again for the first time in a week. I stuck by Christian’s side until Wyatt arrived with his wife. “You do what you have to do,” I said. “I’m going to check out the rest of the exhibition.” There was no way I could listen to them talk business without falling asleep. “Interrupt me if you need me.” Christian leveled me with a dark stare. “I mean it, Stella.” “I will.” I won’t. The thought of interrupting someone mid-conversation gave me hives. It was awkward and rude and I would rather throw myself into an ice pool in the dead of winter. While he spoke with Wyatt, I made my way through the exhibit one piece at a time. The artist Morten （first name only） specialized in abstract realism. His paintings were lush, sometimes haunting, and always beautiful. Bold strokes of color depicted the darkest of