Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 78662 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 393(@200wpm)___ 315(@250wpm)___ 262(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78662 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 393(@200wpm)___ 315(@250wpm)___ 262(@300wpm)
Sure enough, there is an address there. When I pull out my own phone and type it into Google Maps, I see that it’s in Bay Ridge, a neighborhood in Brooklyn that’s not too far from here.
If I hurry, I’ll make it there before it’s late enough for my visit to be creepy.
Giving in to temptation for the first time in my adult life, I order another Uber to Emma’s address in Bay Ridge. It’s not so bad, I tell myself as I get in the car. Once I get rid of this phone, I’ll forget the little redhead once and for all.
I won’t let this strange new weakness of mine ruin what I’ve worked so hard to build.
7
Emma
“You didn’t find anything? It’s in a pink case…” I can’t hide the disappointment in my voice, and the waiter gives me a sympathetic look.
“No, sorry,” he says. “Wish I could help. The couple who were sitting there just left, and they didn’t say anything about a phone.”
“Do you mind if I take a look around the table?” I ask, glancing over at the booth where I’d approached Marcus—who may or may not be an asshole, depending on his true identity.
“Sure, go ahead,” the waiter says.
I walk over to the booth, trying not to think about the man who’d sat there, but I’m not entirely successful. For some reason, my skin feels uncomfortably warm, and my breathing picks up as I picture his cool blue eyes and big hands. And if his hands are that size, how big is his—
No, stop. Focus on the phone.
With effort, I push away the graphic images flooding my mind and crouch to peer under the table.
Nothing.
I look all over the seats next.
Nothing.
Disappointment presses down on me, making my empty stomach roil with anxiety. I didn’t see the phone on the street as I was retracing my steps, and if it’s not in the restaurant, then it’s well and truly lost. Maybe even stolen—in which case the phone-tracking app on my computer, which I was planning to check as the next step, would not help either.
Exhausted and dispirited, I trudge back to the subway. At this point, I’m almost light-headed from hunger, so I buy a banana from a street vendor—I can still afford that—and munch on it as I go down the steps to the train.
All I want is to get home, take a hot shower, and curl up with my cats.
This day is officially a disaster.
I’m never, ever using a dating app again.
8
Marcus
Where the hell is she?
Standing by the side entrance of an ugly old brownstone, I ring the doorbell for the second time, with the same lack of results.
Emma Walsh is not home.
I know her last name thanks to her Facebook profile, which I accessed by tapping on the Facebook icon on her phone. According to that same profile, she’s single (which I already suspected), twenty-six years old, and a graduate of Brooklyn College. She loves books and does freelance editing when she’s not working at a small, family-owned bookstore. Oh, and she definitely owns cats—three of them, judging by her frequent posts about them on Facebook.
Knowing all this about a woman I met by accident makes me feel like a stalker, a feeling that’s only exacerbated by my inexplicable desire to learn more. I played a bit with her phone on the way here—to make sure I had the right address, I told myself—and in the process, I’ve looked at everything from her photos to her email. I didn’t read any of the email because that would’ve been really wrong, but I did glance at the subject lines. It seems like most of her inbox is occupied by messages related to her editing jobs, though there are a bunch of emails from someone named Kendall, too. Same goes for texts, though most of those are from “Grandma” and “Gramps,” who I’m guessing are her grandparents.
Fuck, I am being a stalker.
Disgusted with myself, I turn to leave so I can give the phone to my assistant tomorrow and forget this madness, but at that moment, a small, shapely figure with curly hair approaches from the street… and freezes in place, her hands flying up to grab at the strap of her cheap purse.
In a flash, it dawns on me how I must look to Emma, with my features cast in shadow by the tiny light hanging over the door. If I were a young woman confronted by an unknown six-foot-three man on her doorstep in the dark, I’d probably be shitting my pants right about now.
“It’s me, Marcus,” I say quickly, wanting to reassure her. I might’ve acted like a stalker, but I don’t mean her any harm. “From the café, remember?”
She takes a step back, still gripping her purse strap.
“What—what are you doing here?” She sounds breathless; I must’ve really scared her. “How did you find me?”