A Moment of Truth: A Complete Bonus Set (A Matter of Trust #1-2) (30 page)

Chapter Three

I wake to the sun on my face, but I refuse to open my eyes—I want to lie here and rewind-play-rewind-play last night with Dan. Sure, he’s thousands of miles away, but hell if phone sex with him wasn’t one of the sexiest things I’ve experienced. Just to do that with him—no,
to
him over the phone. I remember our conversation afterward.

“So, how was your flight?” I asked, nonchalantly right after he was done, at which point we both burst into laughter.

It took a minute before he responded. “It was fine. I’m tired, but that—that just now woke me right up. You may have missed your calling. Calling—get it?”

We laughed. “At least I have a backup career.”

“Have you done that a lot?”

“Phone sex? Well, there was a workshop Bridget made me attend one night—”

“She did?”

“Yes, and I had sex with the phone. I was the . . . receiver!” I erupted into giggles. “No, I’ve never had phone sex before. Have you?”
Why do I ask questions I probably don’t want to know the answer to?

“No, not really.”

“‘Not really’? ‘Not really’ isn’t a no.”

“Well, not with anyone I know.”

“What?”

“One night, like four or maybe five years ago or something, Colin, me, and a couple of guys from home got pissed and crashed at Colin’s house, and we called a phone sex line.”

“Do phone sex lines still exist?”

“They did then I guess.”

“And you had a phone sex orgy? Circle jerk? Maybe I shouldn’t know this.”

He laughed. “No. It was a joke! My friend Phil hadn’t had sex yet, and we were teasing him and made him call a phone sex line.”

“But you know with phone sex you don’t actually lose your virginity, right?”

“Unless you’re the receiver!”

We both cracked up.

“So, did he, you know, follow through? With all of you there?”

“Fuck no! When Phil refused to talk, Colin took over and said something about needing his pencil dick sharpened. I can’t even remember the rest, but he had us literally crying laughing.”

“Sounds like Colin!”

“Yes! Anyway, my point is that she sounded really sexy, and I thought about actually calling it up one night—when I was alone, of course—but I never did.”

“And you’ve always regretted it? You know what they say, Dan. YOLO.”

He laughed. “Well, I guess there’s no need now—YOLO, Claire. You’re my fantasy phone sex girl.”

YOLO! I couldn’t stop giggling. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me!”

“I’m all about the compliments.”

“That you are.”

“So tomorrow you’re moving your stuff back to your flat?”

I sighed. “Yeah.”

“You sound thrilled.”

I sighed louder. “Well, I called earlier to tell my mom I was coming and no one answered, so I don’t really know what I’m walking into tomorrow.”

“I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

“There’s only one way to find out.”

Knock. Knock.
I’m suddenly brought back to the here and now of the morning after the phone sex.

“Come in.”

My bedroom door opens, and Camille peers in. “You’re still in bed? Get up! We have to go! Bridget will be back with the van any time now.”

I glance at the clock. “Oh God, I lost track of time!” I throw the sheets off and get going.

Not a minute later, Bridget appears in my doorway, holds up the keys in both her hands like a warrior, and uses a deep voice to say, “I’m the Keymaster!”

“It’s the little things with her,” Camille says with a laugh.

I laugh, too, and quickly get myself together. In no time, we’re on the road, the three of us sitting on the bench seat with Camille driving and Bridget in the middle.

“I’m so excited to see your mom again, Claire. She’s always so sweet and welcoming.” Bridget snorts.

I groan.
Sweet and welcoming—ha!

“I’m sure she’ll offer us cookies and hugs. She’s the best,” she continues.

“How could you have been birthed from her loins? Seriously. You don’t have a mean bone in your body,” Camille says.

“Because her mom’s hogged them all!” Bridget says.

I shake my head.
This is going to be interesting.
Soon enough, there it is: my parents’ large, white colonial house. I take a deep breath. It’s only been a few weeks, but it feels like forever ago that I was here, depressed and ready to hang it up. But then a wonderful turn of events happened—things I never could have expected—and I’m returning here worried that those wonderful things have forever divided my mom and me. My stomach twists.

Camille parks and shuts off the engine. “We’re here!”

“Ahh, Mount Doom,” Bridget says. “This should be a good time.”

“Are you referencing
The Lord of the Rings
?” Camille asks, getting out of the van.

“Yep!” Bridget says with a chuckle.

“No more movies for you,” Camille says.

We walk up to the front door—the door reserved for guests, since that’s how I feel—although guests are welcome, and I might not be. I knock. We wait. And wait. Finally, the door opens and there she is—my mom, Rita—dressed to perfection with precisely matching jewelry and fiery-red hair styled just so. She nods. Her face is devoid of emotion.

“Hello.”

“Hi, Mom,” I say tentatively. I’m hoping, hoping, hoping for a hug, a smile, something, but the tension is thick like mud.
Do I make a move to go inside?

“You’re here to get your things, I see.”

I nod. “Yes, I called yesterday and left a message for you guys. Did you get it?”

“Yes.”

“Oh.” I’m not sure what else to say. This is horribly awkward.

“Come in.” She steps to the side and closes the door behind us. “I’ll get out of your way.” She grabs her keys and purse.

“You’re leaving?” I ask.

“Yes.” For just a fraction of a second, there’s a flash of something—some emotion—but she’s hiding it, whatever it is. “Good-bye.”

“Wait! That’s it? You’re not going to talk to me?”

“What is there to talk about, Claire? You’ve made your decisions, and you’ve made it very clear you don’t want me interfering—or whatever you see it as—so yes, I’m leaving. Keep in touch if you’d like.” She turns and walks through the kitchen into the garage.

I hear the car start, and I run to the living room window to watch in disbelief as her car pulls down the driveway. With my mouth agape, I turn to Camille and Bridget who are surprised, too. It’s brutally anticlimactic and more painful than a screaming match.

We stand silent for several long moments.

Bridget claps her hands, startling Camille and me. “Well, come on! Before Sauron comes back!”

We pack my things, and although Camille, Bridget and I talk, I find I’m incapable of much conversation. Part of me wants to drag this out until my mom returns, and the other part of me wants to torch the rest of my things just to get out of here faster.

When we’re finally done and get into the truck, we’re sitting in the same order as we did on the way here.

“That didn’t take that long,” Bridget says, slapping her thighs and smiling.

I nod, staring out the front window.

“It’ll be okay, Claire,” Camille says. I know she’s trying to catch my eye, but I just can’t look at her. I can’t look at either of them.

I shrug. “I know.”
No I don’t.

“It will. She’s just still mad,” Camille reassures me.

“She didn’t even want to stay, Camille. Not even for a minute. Didn’t want to talk to me. Told me to keep in touch. Who tells
their child
to keep in touch?”

We’re quiet until Bridget says, “You know, your mom and Sauron are such parallel people, Claire.”

“Still with
The Lord of the Rings
, huh? You know he’s fictional, right?” Camille asks.

“Yes, I know that! Sheesh. My point is that Sauron used a mutant army and black magic, and your mom uses ice and guilt, but it’s all the same really—a dark force that sucks the life out of you.”

Camille grins and nods. “Rita is a force, that’s for sure, and she certainly knows how to get under your skin, Claire. Today was probably the most crafted use of guilt I’ve seen from her. Genius, really.”

“She’s just trying to make her point. If she really didn’t want to see you, she would’ve left before you got there. She knew you were coming and what time,” Bridget says.

“I hadn’t thought about that.”

“Seriously, she still loves you. I mean, you don’t get all dramatic unless you care, you know? She stayed until you arrived and then slathered you with guilt just to drive her point home.”

“And what was her point?” I ask.

Bridget continues, “That she’s right. That she knows best. I don’t know why she doesn’t just talk to you like a person. You’re quite sweet. You’re the anti-Sauron.”

I succumb to a laugh. “So I’m Gandalf the Grey?” I say with a cocked eyebrow.

“No, Gandalf the Grey Sweatpants. Now stop letting her mess with your head.”

Chapter Four

After picking up my stuff from my parents’ house, I spend the next few days unpacking and one hundred percent procrastinating on getting started on the songs I have to write. Not that I don’t want to work on them, but I’m a bit paralyzed. How do I start this new career of mine and not look like a big, fat faker? Sure, I can play instruments and write music—nothing about music has ever been particularly difficult. But this time? There’s pressure to knock it out of the park, pressure not to fuck it all up, and if I do screw it up, it’s over—this brand new career will be the shortest one in recorded history. And God knows Rita will have a lot to say about that.

The one saving grace is that David’s able to secure a practice room at NYU for me. I have to call and reserve a spot when I need to use it, but thank God this is a thing—who knew? Owning a piano would be impossible in my little apartment. NYU’s expected minimum “donation” is pretty pricey, but I can manage if I budget right, which is something I’m used to. Plus, it’s a short ride on the subway.

I’ve already spent several days unpacking—a.k.a. avoiding work—and now I’m really down to the wire, so I head to the university Monday morning. I’ve got to get this done before I leave for Mexico . . . Ahhh, Mexico and Dan! Gah. I can’t wait to see him and hold him and smell his magical soap and shaving cream scent.

My thoughts drift off until the subway jerks to a halt, and I realize it’s my stop. With my backpack slung over my shoulder, I head up into the steamy July air and slowly melt as I walk the remaining distance to the university.

When I finally arrive, I check in with the department secretary, Mrs. White, who introduces me to the chairperson. They give me a rundown of the layout and the dos and don’ts. Mrs. White shows me to the room I’ll be using for the day. I close the glass door to the small piano practice room and am bowled over by my fortune. I’m actually here to write and play music—as a career!

It wouldn’t be normal if I wasn’t a churning ball of nerves, or at least that’s what I’m telling myself.
You can do this, Claire. You really can.
I do my best to push away the doubts as I set up; pencil out and paper on the tray of the gorgeous grand piano. I sit, breathe deeply, and begin warming up, my fingers loosening and stretching. I take several deep, calming breaths and suddenly—
Wham!
She’s awake! My muse is flying through my fingertips like an unleashed genie from a bottle.

What a rush!
She’s diving deep into my soul, carving out melodies, new and crisp, and harmonies that balance everything out. Seems that having been shut away for so long took its toll on her, because she can’t wait to play. I shut up and listen. For hours. It’s hard to write it all down; instead, I record what I come up with so I can transcribe it later. When I leave late in the afternoon, I’m floating. I have to stop myself from skipping.

Every day this week, I hit the practice room and meet up with my muse as she uncovers new melodies, one after another. By the end of the week, with a decent sampling ready for David, I’m feeling good—accomplished. I have no idea if this is what he’s looking for, but I’ve done it! I feel confident about the music I’ve written, too, and I figure that’s half the battle. On my walk home Friday afternoon, I’m patting myself on the back. So far, I’ve been able to tackle my first assignment in my new career and manage a long-distance relationship with Mr. Beautiful.
Go me!

Chapter Five

Well, that didn’t take long. The thrill of writing the new music has slowly faded, and the distance between Dan and I is hitting me. God knows that dark ideas like to hover over me like dark clouds when Dan and I are apart. I hate to admit it, but for these last two weeks away from him, I’ve subconsciously worried something unexpected would happen and we’d break up like the last time we were apart. It’s why I’m holding my breath on the plane now, crossing my fingers that I’ll get there quicker than quick—I’m ready for those gray skies to clear when I see Mr. Beautiful. Even though we’ve talked on the phone every day, I need to see him in person to know everything between us remains steady and strong.

I scramble off the plane and decide not to call him to tell him I’m in yet—it’ll be fun to surprise him. Once I arrive at his hotel, I grab the extra key he left for me at the desk and head to his suite. Flicking on the light, I see it’s like a luxurious apartment. The spacious living room is furnished with soft, cozy couches, chairs, and a table for eating with a huge flat screen TV against one wall. There are French doors that lead to a balcony. I check out the bedroom, which is straight from a magazine with its king-sized bed and the softest bedding I’ve ever touched. To say it’s nicer than any hotel I’ve ever stayed in is an understatement.

But Dan’s still working—he’s been filming long, odd hours. So I settle in, take a shower, and call him.

“Hey, Claire!” I love how happy he sounds. “Tell me you’re here—I haven’t had a chance to check your flight status. I’m on my way back to the hotel right now.”

I sigh loudly before I say, “Unfortunately, my plane’s been delayed so I probably won’t make it in until after midnight.”

“Oh.” I can hear the disappointment in his voice, and I force myself not to giggle. “Okay. Be safe, and I’ll see you when you arrive. I’ll try to wait up. Wake me if I’m not, all right?”

“Definitely.”

“I can’t wait for you to get here.”

“Me, too. It’s been too long.”

“Far too long. Now hurry up!” He laughs and we hang up.

I quickly dress in one of the lacy lingerie sets I brought along. I stuff my breasts in the black push-up bra and adjust the matching, skimpy black panties. In the bathroom, I brush my teeth again, fluff up my hair, touch up my makeup, and dab on lip gloss. Back in the bedroom, I lie on the bed, propped up on one elbow, in the dark. My heart is thumping, and I’m giddy.

It’s hard to surprise Dan, but I love to when I can. It must be the smile I’m rewarded with—the one that makes my heart explode—that spurs me on. I’m just about done fiddling around when I hear the lock on the suite door click. From under the crack at the bottom of the bedroom door, I see the living room light come on. The bedroom door opens. He flips on the light and jumps back with a yelp. 

“Fucking Christ, Claire! You scared the bloody hell out of me!” There it is—that radiant smile—and my heart leaps, rejoicing along with the rest of me that my boyfriend is right here! His eyes drop to my body, sliding left and right, up and over my curves as if he’s just noticed what I’m wearing. He tosses the stuff in his hands onto the floor and begins unbuttoning his shirt and kicking off his shoes.
My God, he’s sexy.

“I thought your plane was delayed, you big, fat liar.”

I giggle. “Nope, just wanted to surprise you.”

“Surprise? Heart attack is more like it. And look at you. Fuck, I can’t get this off fast enough.” I laugh as he drops his button-down shirt on the floor and whips his T-shirt over his head.

Bare chest. Rippled abs. Rounded shoulders. DaVinci’s dream.
Gah!

“Are you tired? Your fingers are fumbling,” I say, watching him fight with his belt and unbutton his pants.

“Nope. Not at all. Prepare yourself.” With a laugh, he launches himself at me wearing only his boxer-briefs. He lands right on top of me, the bed squeaking in response, and I grunt as all the air leaves my body. He starts kissing my neck, but then pulls back, examining me from head-to-toe, and slides a hand down the side of my body. “Look at you.”

“No, look at
you
,” I say as I run my nails down his chest. I angle myself to suck on his nipple. His abs contract, and he moans.

I start kissing-licking-nibbling along his chest while he moans-groans-grinds himself into my hips. I can’t stand it. His underwear must come off now! I need skin on skin. Without breaking the kiss, I stretch to yank down his underwear and he wiggles them off the rest of the way.

“You’ve got too much on,” he says, sliding my panties off between heartbeats. He doesn’t even remove my bra, just pushes the cups down to expose my breasts. And without another word we’re making up for lost time. In, out, up, down, over, under. It’s prepositional heaven.

Afterward, we lie together, breathless, exhausted, and sweating. I sit up a bit to glance at the clock. “Wow. Sixteen minutes. Record time.” I flop back, grinning.

“Sorry it was fast,” he says, catching his breath.

“Fast? I thought it was one of your better times.”

“Wench!” He laughs, turns my hips over, and slaps my ass.

“Ow!”

He gently removes my bra now, discarding it to the floor before we slip under the covers. I nestle into my favorite spot—that soft arm-shoulder nook. He wraps himself around me, and I throw a leg over his.

“I like when my phone sex girls come to see me in person.”

“‘Girls’? I thought I was special.”

“You’re the Tuesday special.”

“But it’s Wednesday.”

“Eh.
Tomayto-tomahto,”
he says, laughing. “It’s so good to have you right here.” He squeezes me. “I was really disappointed when I thought you were going to be late.”

“I’ve decided that lying to surprise you is fun.” I prop myself on an elbow to better see him. “How’s filming going?”

“It’s good. Busy. The schedule’s been all over the place. Honestly, I’m exhausted.”

Poor guy
. I stroke his chest. “Sounds like it’s been hard.”

“I wouldn’t say hard but definitely challenging. We had some crazy storms blow through last week, and it just threw us off—the schedule, the timing of things, scenes were switched at the last minute.”

“At least it’s beautiful here.”

“Prettier now.” He kisses my head.

“You’re very sweet. I’m guessing you haven’t had much time to relax and enjoy, huh?”

“Fuck, no. It’s not unusual, but I was hoping I’d have a little more time to relax, especially now that you’re here.”

“Am I going to be in the way?”

“No, not at all. I’ve really been looking forward to seeing you, finally hanging out with you here, fucking you . . .” He laughs and squeezes me hard and yanks me on top of him.

“No, fuck you!” I say, laughing.

We wrestle a bit, but then he stops to yawn. “I’m so sorry; I wish I wasn’t so tired.”

I nestle in again and pat his chest. “It’s okay. You’re just out of shape. Good thing I’m here to help you increase that stamina.” I giggle.

He kisses my head and yawns again. “Yes, thank fuck you’re here.”

***

The next morning, I wake up alone in the bed—as usual. I glance over at the empty bathroom when I hear the suite door close. I glance at the clock—seven a.m.
He’s gone already?
With the sheet wrapped around me, I get up out of bed and peek into the living room. I’m surprised to see Mr. Beautiful already dressed and setting the table with breakfast that must have just been delivered.

“You ordered breakfast? I didn’t even hear you get up,” I say, walking over to him. I run my hand through my hair.

“Hard to hear over the snoring.” With a laugh, he sets down the plate and plants a sweet kiss on my lips.

“I do not snore.”

“Yes, you do, and for the record, I wanted to surprise
you
this time.” Beaming, he goes back to setting things up.

I shake my head; I can’t stop smiling at his kindness. “But you’re up so early, and you were exhausted.”

“It’s fine.” He shrugs and finishes laying out the silverware. “I have to get to the set soon anyway. I should be done by three today, so maybe you can meet me at the beach? But for now, let’s have breakfast together. Here, sit.” He holds out a chair for me.

I sit and he sits across from me and begins to load up his plate. It’s funny how even with the most mundane tasks, he’s just so mesmerizing to watch; like how carefully he makes room on his plate for everything—the scrambled eggs at noon, bacon at three, followed by toast, fruit, and pancakes to round out the rest of the circle. He pours syrup on his pancakes and orange juice into a small glass and hands it to me, but I’m not ready to eat just yet. I want to bask in him—how content he makes me feel, how relaxed and happy I am that we’re here in the same space again. It’s like home. Internally I freeze. It’s too big a thought, frankly. I shake it off and watch as he opens wide for a mammoth forkful of pancakes and looks up at me with a raised eyebrow.

“Aren’t you going to eat?” he says with a mouthful.

I sip my juice. I want to tell him how much I enjoy watching him, but maybe that’s weird and creepy, so I take some eggs and bacon and pour syrup on the bacon.

“Syrup on bacon, huh?” he asks.

“You’ve never tried it? It’s really good.” I get up, clutching the sheet around me, and carry my plate to him. He scoots back from the table so I can sit on his lap, and the sheet splits open at my leg, exposing my thigh. He rests his hand there while I dip the end of the bacon into the syrup and feed it to him.

His eyes widen. “Mmm, that’s good.”

I nod and take a bite of it myself. I dip it again and feed him another bite, this time following it with a kiss. His hand slides up my leg, under the sheet, and grips my hip. I pull back and smile, but keep my eyes on his mouth. “You like it?” When he’s not staring at my mouth, he’s staring at the sheet I’m holding up, so I drop it. “You like that, too?” I tilt my head to the side.

Pheromones saturate the air around us. He swallows, sliding his other hand up to my breast. “My favorite,” he whispers.

We kiss deeply as he fondles my breast. I reach down to his belt, unlatch it, and slither my hand in to find his massive morning sausage ready to be served. I slip his pants down a smidge and straddle him on the armless chair. Slowly, he fills me. With a groan, he closes his eyes and his head drops back.

After a moment, his head snaps up and his eyes are glued to my breasts. His hands, needy and quick, slide here, squeeze there, and grasp my hips, driving them up and down. My head lolls back, and he drags his hand down my neck, between my breasts to my belly. I kiss him hard and grip his shoulders, holding on—literally and figuratively. Only the tips of my toes reach the floor, and it’s just enough to keep me balanced. His hold on my hips tightens.

I pull up and he pushes me down . . . and on we go—up and down, harder and faster—until I’m just about there, riding the sharp edge of ecstasy, when my toes push off too hard, I lean too far forward, he’s too far under me, and the chair begins to tip backward. We yelp as we flail and fall backward, his feet knocking into the table of food, and then—thump! His head smacks the floor. I scramble to get up, grabbing at my twisted sheet, but it’s the tablecloth I yank on instead, and dishes start falling on us, as does orange juice and . . . syrup! I reach out to stop the avalanche of food when there’s a knock at the door.

“Dan? I hear you wreaking havoc in there. Open up!” It’s a man, and he’s laughing and rattling the doorknob.

“Shit! It’s Len,” Dan whispers. “Why is he here?” We scurry about as best we can, only to make a bigger, louder mess that clearly can’t be cleaned up quickly.

“Be right there,” Dan says to the closed door. “Wait. He doesn’t have a key. He can’t barge in. Duh.”

I sigh in relief.

“Here.” Dan hands me the sheet this time. “Go into the bedroom. I’ll take care of the mess.” He puts his clothes back in order.

“Okay.” I wrap the sheet around me again.

I shut the bedroom door but can easily hear Len enter and the conversation on the other side of it.

“Hey,” Dan says. I hear him exhale like he’s just stopped running a race.

Len laughs. “What are you—” Then silence followed by, “Hello, Claire!” Len shouts from the other room.

“Hi!” I shout back, and I’m mortified to realize I smell like syrup. I’m sticky, too.

“Remaking
9 ½ Weeks
, eh?” Len laughs.

“Why are you here? Everything okay?” Dan asks.

“Everything is just fine, and I made the trip down here—not to spy on you and whatever you’re doing to this poor hotel room—but to tell you . . . hold onto your hat . . . that Bob Sushman wants you for Luke.”

Bob? Luke? Who?

“Fuck me, no!” But it’s a happy “fuck, me no” from Dan.

“Who’re Bob and Luke?” I shout through the door.

The door opens, and I jump back as it nearly hits me in the face. Dan hugs me hard for a long while before pulling back to look at me. He can’t speak for a moment. He shakes his head. “It’s my dream part, Claire. Dream director, dream script.” He squeezes me hard again.

“Oh my God! That’s amazing!”

Dan finally lets go and says, “It’s been months and months since I auditioned—before we even met I think—and Len promised that if I ever got the part, he’d come to wherever I was and tell me—which he just did!” He hugs me again.

“Well, I’m glad you didn’t find out before I got here,” Len says from the other side of the door.

“Huh?” Dan says.

Len pushes the door open slowly, his hands over his eyes. I tighten my grip on the sheet wrapped around me. “I was told a couple of days ago—hoped it wouldn’t have hit the press before I got here, and thankfully it didn’t. I just couldn’t get here until now.”

“It’s fine,” Dan says in disbelief, shaking his head.

“I’m so happy for you! What’s it about? Tell me everything!” I say.

Len peeks through his fingers. “I hate to break up the party, but I figured I’d walk with you to the set, Dan.”

Dan looks at me longingly. “Right. I have to go to work. I’m filming on the beach today, but come down when you’re ready. I’ll set you up down there, okay?”

I give him a kiss. “Sure. Can’t wait for you to tell me all the details!”

He’s beaming—I’ve never seen him so ready to burst . . . well, maybe when I told him I loved him, but that was a different kind of beaming.

***

After Dan and Len leave, I shower and wash the syrup off of me. I dress in the skimpiest light blue bathing suit to fulfill Dan’s request to wear next to nothing, and as I look at myself in the mirror, I’m positive I’ve delivered. I throw on my cover-up and hat, sling my beach bag over my shoulder, and head down to the beach.

What a stunning sight! Blue waters, white sand—in one word—paradise. The crew isn’t far off; it looks like they’re setting up. I see Dan and chance a wave, unsure if he can see me, too. He waves back and jogs over.

“Hi,” he says, tilting his head at me like he’s searching me for something.

Then I realize. “You can’t see through the cover up. You didn’t get the X-ray vision, remember? You only got the insane good looks. And I like your costume, by the way. It doesn’t really look like a costume. It’s like your normal clothes.” I laugh and look around. “Are you on a break or something?”

“Kind of. Just between set-ups, so I only have a second. Come on. I’ll show you where you can stay. They’ve booked out the entire hotel and have got security everywhere.” He leads me to an area nearby with stakes in the ground and a rope attached to them all. There’s a lone umbrella and a chaise lounge chair underneath. “Security knows you’re here, and you won’t be in the shots. But I can still see you.” He winks mischievously.

“I’ll be watching you . . .” I sing. “So you set this up, you stalker?”