Total pages in book: 54
Estimated words: 49416 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 247(@200wpm)___ 198(@250wpm)___ 165(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 49416 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 247(@200wpm)___ 198(@250wpm)___ 165(@300wpm)
CHAPTER 2
Zoe
TWO MONTHS LATER
Silver: What did you bring for lunch today?
Iglance down at the text, unable to stop the smile spreading over my face. I can’t help it, anytime he texts—which has been every day since I texted him back a month and a half ago—I get this undeniable giddy feeling. It’s ridiculous, especially since we still don’t know each other’s real names, but it’s fun.
Me: I actually forgot to pack one today.
I settle back into my office chair, grinning at my phone like I’m a teenager all over again. I have a few minutes before my next meeting, and I’m more than happy to spend it chatting with him.
Silver: You usually pack epic snack boxes. I can’t believe you forgot.
Silver: Of course, if you told me your real name, I could bring lunch to you.
A flush rakes over my skin at the suggestion. It wouldn’t be the first time during our casual, daily texting that he’s brought it up. Part of me is dying to meet the real man behind the silver mask who’d given me the best sex of my life two months ago.
The other part?
Terrified.
What if we meet in the real world—no nightclub, no masks, no phone protecting our identities—and I fall short? What if he doesn’t live up to the fantasy he’s helped build in my mind? First with the incredible masked sex and second with the cute, flirty texts every day? Isn’t it better to live in the fantasy?
Me: I don’t know…what if you like ‘masked me’ and ‘texting me’ better than the actual me?
I send the text quickly before I can chicken out and delete the question I’ve wanted to ask every time he’s brought up meeting in person.
Silver: That’s not a possibility, kitten. I know the real woman behind the mask. I got very acquainted with her that night at the club.
I bite my lip, heat spilling into my veins as the memory plays in my mind. I can almost feel him sliding between my thighs, his mask firmly in place as he thrusts into me with expert moves that turned me liquid.
Me: What are you doing for lunch today?
I text back, wanting to shift us to the easier ground we usually dance on.
Silver: I made tacos last night. Brought the rest for lunch.
Me: Sounds fun. Big day ahead?
Silver: Just one meeting in an hour. You?
Me: I have a meeting…shit, now. Got to go. Talk tonight?
Silver: I’ll be here, kitten.
A warm shiver races down my spine at the declaration, and I smile while switching my phone to do-not-disturb. I head across my office, opening my door just in time to see my one o’clock heading toward me.
“Hi, Dad,” I say, giving him a quick, light hug so I don’t wrinkle his suit.
“Hi, sweetheart,” he says, following me into his office.
He takes a seat in one of the chairs across from my desk, and I elect to sit in the one next to him instead of going behind my desk. He's certainly not a patient, but this meeting had been scheduled by his assistant.
He fiddles with something in his hand, and it draws my attention. The white envelope and red handwriting scrawled across it is familiar. My body goes cold, my eyes widening as I look at my dad.
“Yeah,” he says, disappointment edged into his features as he passes me the envelope. “One of my guys spotted it on your windshield when we got here.” He shakes his head. “What is this now? The fourth letter?”
I take a deep breath, doing my best to quell the adrenaline pumping through me.
“The fifth,” I say, cringing slightly because I hadn't told him about the one I found taped to my office door last week.
I slide my finger beneath the lip of the envelope, cracking it open even though I know what will be inside.
You shouldn't have ended things between us. I know you regret your decision. I watch you every day and every night just waiting for the moment you'll come to your senses and invite me back into your life. Until then, know that I'm watching you.
I read the note twice before folding it back into the envelope and passing it back to my dad.
“More of the same?” he asks, tossing the letter onto my desk.
“Yep,” I answer. “I was hoping my lack of response to all of his cues for attention would make his obsession fizzle out.”
“It clearly hasn't,” Dad says. “How long has it been since you discontinued him as a patient?”
“Five weeks,” I answer, blowing out of breath.
Spencer Joel had been my patient for a year before his attentions turned obsessive in the last three months I treated him. He'd never shown any signs of ailments that would’ve pointed to obsessive tendencies, which is why I’d been so surprised when it started happening.