Chapter 11: Chapter Ten

Monday passed in an odd blur of activity. Early Tuesday morning, Anita’s phone exploded on her nightstand with text messages. Anita blearily looked through them, groaning. Ever since she had kissed Patrick’s dimple, well, fine, ever since he had come back from New York, she had not been able to get her eight hours. She was frustrated, exhausted, and had bags under her eyes the size of the Keystone Star Ball trophy. It did not bode well for competition.

Neither did the fact that Toni kept missing Zumba classes. Anita checked through her texts. The excuse this morning was that she said that she had missed the last train out of Philadelphia and wouldn’t be back in Lewis before class. Super. Add that to the list of the things she had to do today.

Yoga would even her out. That’s what it was for, right? She closed her eyes in namaste, focusing on her breathing, but Patrick kept intruding on her thoughts. Odd things, like his sweat that smelled of cinnamon and mint, the feeling of his strong and steady hands when they danced, the feel of his skin against her lips, the way his mouth curved ever so slightly that just made her want…

Anita opened her eyes. Namaste be damned. Now he had ruined her morning routine.

Anita sighed and finger-combed her long blonde hair. She had once read a book about a stalker who had switched her target’s shampoo for hair remover.

Great. It was surely a short step from breaking into her studio to scrawl cryptic messages to hair remover in her shampoo.

Nobody would have broken into her apartment, right?

Anita glanced around her bedroom. Everything seemed in order. Well, as ordered as it ever was. There were only three paperbacks and two ice-cold mugs of tea on her nightstand. She was just being paranoid.

A shower. Warm water, start over—

Oh my God, what would Patrick look like massaging soap onto his chiseled abs glistening with water droplets?

Shit.

A run, then. She would run him and the weird lipstick letters and creepy SUVs out of her system, and then everything would be back to normal.

Right.

****

Anita walked the last half mile back to her studio and apartment, panting heavily. March was so far ending on a blustery but behaved streak, and she could feel the warmer April air starting to push through the cold front. She had just enough time for a quick shower and breakfast before comp prep with Patrick. Once she caught her breath, of course.

She leaned against the wall of the studio, one hand on her ankle to stretch her quads. Through the glass-paneled door, she could see Patrick leaning against the check-in desk, arms crossed over his neon green Zumba tank and glaring at something on his phone. His brown hair was spiked with sweat, and his tanned muscles appeared far too tense for someone who had just spent an hour shaking it to Flo Rida and Pitbull.

He looked up as the bell clanged, but the narrow suspicion in his eyes softened as he registered her.

“Hey,” she said quietly. They had not talked about how she had kissed him. It had just been a friendly peck. Nothing to get worked up about. Her runner’s high dissipated like mist on a hot summer day.

“Hey.” He was definitely not himself. He danced on the tips of his toes like he was being chased by a horde of angry crows. He treated his phone, which previously had seemed surgically attached to his hand, as if it was going to give him herpes.

She leaned against the check-in desk across from him. “What’s going on?”

Patrick hesitated, then ran his hands through his hair. He tousled it adorably, though she had a feeling that wasn’t his intention. “Look, I didn’t want to bother you with this. I know you’re dealing with a lot. I’m sorry.”

As if she could not feel more selfish. “Patrick.” Anita moved toward him and placed a friendly hand on his arm. He felt so good, so like home. “I want to hear everything going on with you. You’re always there for me. We’re friends, right?”

Patrick looked at her, a curious expression on his face. She brushed her cheeks with one finger to remove whatever was offending him. Friend wasn’t a four-letter word.

A long moment passed. Anita’s stomach churned. This was her fault somehow. The kiss had been a mistake, the whole partnership had been a mistake.

At length, Patrick broke the standstill.

“Okay. This is going to sound crazy. Someone is trolling me on social media. I didn’t think it was a big deal, but it’s just getting weirder and creepier, and I’m not sure if I should tell the police.” He deflated and sank into a chair, his hands in his hair.

Her breath hitched, but she couldn’t show her relief. He wasn’t mad at her. Not what she had anticipated, to say the least. She sat beside him, trying not to lean into the comfort of his aroma. “Would you show me?”

Patrick looked over at her, his blue eyes dark, cautious. Without a word, he retrieved his phone and then sat beside her. He held the screen of his phone toward her and scrolled through apps with his phone. He finally stopped over a photo.

“Ugh.” She recoiled, then drew closer. It looked like late-night drunk sexting. Not that she had a ton of experience with that. “What even is that?”

“I think it’s a torso with a tattoo of a heart by the belly button,” he responded. “I had the same reaction at first.” He glanced at her face and snickered.

“What?”

“Your reaction to the word torso.” He giggled. Giggled. Of course the man giggled at her. “Isn’t your dad a doctor?”

If her dad had his way, she would have been a doctor, too. It wasn’t her fault the sight of blood made her want to vomit. “So what? They just randomly sent you a picture of their creepy tat?” It was a lopsided heart, too. That was rough. Someone had pissed off the artist.

That stopped the giggling at least. The phone engrossed his attention again. “It started with weird messages full of suggestive emojis from burner accounts. I thought it was some internet troll playing a prank. But now there are these photos, and the messages have gotten darker and creepier.” He showed her the words preceding the heart tattoo picture.

You’re Mine, Now and Always.

Oh, for Heaven’s sake. A lopsided tattoo and an uninspired creepazoid greeting card.

“Classy,” Anita said, her voice dry. “What other sorts of things have they been saying? Are they going to send you a pony for Christmas?”

Patrick grimaced, and a flush swept up his neck. “It’s not funny. I’ve seen “Play Misty for Me” three times, and it just does not end well.”

He had a point. She was more familiar with “Swimfan,” but still. She knew well the mind-fuck of unwanted attention.

“Patrick—” Even after seeing his evidence, she could not shake a nagging tension in her shoulders. The words crowded themselves inside her, begging for release. She just had to open the floodgate. “It’s not just you.”

His gaze found hers. It was hot and so intense she simultaneously wanted to lean into it and run as far as she could. She could roast a marshmallow in that heat.

“What are you talking about?” His voice was low, dark. She shivered.

“You remember the mirror with the lipstick? Well, that wasn’t the first thing that happened.” She told him about the letter, the car that had followed her home from her parents’ house the week prior. His face grew darker, more pensive. She withdrew farther into herself. She should have dealt with it on her own.

He tapped his phone against his leg. “You don’t think these incidents could all be related, do you? What are the odds there is more than one stalker in Lewis, Pennsylvania?”

Anita shrugged. She opened her mouth and then closed it again. She missed his dimple, the little trio of fine lines around his eyes that crinkled when he smiled.

Now he just had a look of determination, a soldier about to head into battle. “We should call the police.”

“Can they do anything?”

Her last experience with the police in Lewis had been in the sixth grade, on a very short tour of the facility. The sheriff’s office consisted of four deputies and the sheriff herself. Their duties primarily entailed tracking down Mr. Jeffers, the eighty-year-old man with rapidly advancing dementia who had a predilection for wandering Main Street in his boxers.

It did not inspire confidence. Particularly if nothing was really wrong.

“It’s better than nothing. We can call John Flaherty.” Some of the lightness of his features had returned. She did not know whether to be grateful or disgruntled.

“John?” She raised a single eyebrow and cocked her head at him. “John Flaherty?”

His excitement was nearly palpable. “Yeah, he joined the sheriff’s office after he got out of the service. It’s perfect.”

Perfect, right. Their best hope was an eighth-grade arsonist turned cop.

One more thing to add to her to-do list.

On the bright side, the dimple had returned. Patrick flopped into the seat beside her again, spraying her with sweat.

“Dude, you need a shower.”

“No one says dude anymore, Anita.”

“I’m saying it right now.”

He was grinning at her. Full-on, eyes sparkling, boyish hot guy grinning at her. A delicious heat spread up her spine.

“It’s not my fault Melanie and Kim invited an extra twenty people when they found out I was teaching this morning.”

The heat turned to ice. “Melanie? Wow. She, uh, gets up early.”

He did not seem to notice. “Those ladies have way too much energy that early in the morning. You would like them.”

Not likely. Anita pulled at her damp running shirt. She smelled like an eighteen-year-old boy’s college dorm room. No sweet Patrick scent for her.

“I’m going to take a shower.” She shook her head, trying to shake out the image of Melanie Templeton hanging on Patrick’s arm, laughing at his jokes, sticking her cleavage under his nose. If she had the chance she would—

She heard the distinct sound of his steps on the stairwell behind her.

“Can I help you with something?” She was not sure where the edge in her voice had come from, but she could not take it back now.

“Any chance I could use your shower?”

Anita’s feet halted abruptly. Patrick in her shower. Water and Patrick. That eight-pack—

The heat had returned and now spread all the way from the backs of her thighs to her shoulder blades.

“Why can’t you use yours?” She choked, her mouth so dry it was like she had eaten sand. No, no, no, no, no.

Patrick leaned one hip against the handrail of the stairs. “They have the water off at my apartment until eleven. Besides, you have all the good products.”

Her voice would not work, so she made a feeble gesture toward her door and tried not to melt into the floor.

****

Patrick tossed two slices of whole-grain bread into the toaster and turned the front burner on the stove to low to scramble eggs. He could hear Anita singing show tunes off-key in the shower. No, he could not look at the door. It would not be ajar. She would not be reflected in the bathroom mirror, surrounded by highly perfumed steam.

He looked anyway.

Masochist. He was a masochist, that was the only explanation.

Reality was that she had practically barricaded the bathroom door, and she would never allow herself to appear in front of him less than fully attired. Even when they had traveled for competitions, she had never let him share her hotel room, no matter how broke they were. Part of it probably should have been because they partnered with other people, but Patrick still took it personally. After a while, Patrick had stopped asking.

Not stopped dreaming, just stopped asking.

While the eggs cooked slowly, Patrick cut up an avocado and an orange he found in the fruit bowl on the kitchen counter. He checked the coffee in the French press and poured cups for the two of them. If he couldn’t see her naked today, at least he could cook her a decent breakfast.

It would be easier to ignore if she had not kissed him. Just a peck, but it was a terrible bone to throw to a starving dog. He had barely been able to think of anything else. Not that she wanted to discuss it.

Time was ticking, and his plan to tell her how he felt was going exactly nowhere.

Through the closed bathroom door, he heard the blow dryer running.

“Breakfast is almost ready!” Patrick called.

Anita nudged the door open. She was already dressed in her usual daily outfit of gray sweater, leotard, and leggings—unfortunately—but her damp hair framed her face like a lion’s mane. The smell of grapefruit and hibiscus clung to the steamy air.

He definitely deserved a medal for not just pushing open the door and grabbing her then and there. Hibiscus flowers. That’s what she had smelled like when she had kissed his cheek.

“You made breakfast?” Anita had a blow dryer in one hand and toothbrush in the other. Sexy little multitasker. He really should stop standing there, staring at her like an idiot with a silicone spatula clutched in his fist. Great job, O’Leary.

“You need to eat. Blow dry your hair later. Eggs aren’t good cold.”

She shrugged and joined him at the table, accepting avocado toast, fruit, and scrambled eggs on her vintage mismatched plates. “I don’t think anyone has ever made me breakfast.”

He forked a spoonful of eggs into his mouth. “You’re missing out. We should have been dance partners ages ago.” He gestured at her with his fork. “I also make a mean Bolognese.”

“And by ‘mean,’ that implies ‘barely edible.’ ” She smiled at him in that mocking way of hers that he loved, the way that tilted the corners of her eyes wickedly, then bit into her avocado toast. Ah, to be toast.

“Well, I order a mean Bolognese.” Patrick nudged the coffee toward her. “But I can definitely do breakfast.”

They ate in companionable silence for a moment or two. This was the dream. Mornings sipping coffee and chatting after nights of rocking her world. Which he definitely would never say out loud, because this was not 1994.

Anita sipped her coffee. The steam haloed around her head. “Did you call John yet?”

“No.” Not because he had forgotten, which he kind of had. He had been thinking other things. “I thought we could call together.”

Anita nodded, tensed, and sipped at her coffee.

Inhaling deeply, Patrick put his phone on speaker and dialed.

“Pat O’Leary?” came an incredulous tinny voice over the speakerphone. “I saw your name, and I was like, who is shitting me?”

“Hey, John,” Patrick replied a little too loudly. He was never sure of speakerphone etiquette. “How are you?”

“Good, good, you know, can’t complain. Hey, I was going to call you. Do you still know Anita Goodman? My fiancée wants us to have a fancy wedding dance or something, and she’s been at me to call her.”

Anita smiled. “Hi, John,” she said softly. “This is Anita. I’m here with Patrick.”

“You two are together!” John whooped. “I always knew it. I mean Patrick had a serious—”

Patrick quickly moved to cut him off but caught Anita’s bemused glance. That fire had barely been doused. “No, we aren’t, like, together together. Just friends. Still. But we are having a problem right now that we wanted to discuss with you.”

“Oh,” John said over the phone. “Gotcha. Work related. What’s going on?”

Anita and Patrick proceeded to tell the deputy everything that had occurred over the last week while John listened quietly. “Do you have pictures or copies of these messages?” he finally asked.

Patrick blanched slightly, as did Anita. “Umm, well, no,” he replied. “At first I thought it was a prank, so I deleted everything and banned the scam accounts.”

“I don’t either.” Anita’s voice was hoarse. “I didn’t even think to take a picture of the message on the mirror, or the license plate of the car. I recycled the letter. Stupid.”

“Not at all.” John’s voice was tinny over the speaker. “Happens to the best of us. The problem is, without evidence, there isn’t much we can do.”

Patrick’s buoyant mood at the pseudo-date with the love of his life ebbed. This was a small-town police department, not “CSI.” They couldn’t recover deleted files or get DNA off a social media photo. The odds were slim John or anyone else had even been trained to get metadata off a photo.

“Look, so far it just sounds weird and creepy but kind of harmless and bumbling. Keep an eye out, lock your doors, and if anything else comes up, keep it and call me back. Send me a copy of today’s message. I’ll see what I can dig up.”

Which would likely be a big fat nothing. Patrick worried more about Anita. Her stalking seemed more perilous than someone’s misdirected love letters.

“Thanks, John.” Patrick sighed. “Take care.”

“Tell your fiancée I’m happy to help.” In her voice, he could hear how Anita struggled to maintain her professionalism. It must be exhausting to wear a mask like that all the time. “I’d love to choreograph something for you.”

“Thanks,” John replied. “But don’t get too excited. She’s a huge U2 fan and, for some reason, wants our song to be ‘The Sweetest Thing.’ ”

The phone beeped twice, and the call ended. Anita’s face had gone ghost sheet white.

Patrick concealed his snicker behind a cough. “Isn’t that song about how Bono forgot his wife’s birthday?”

She nodded. “Oh well, bigger fish to fry and all that.”

She looked so lost.

He would give anything to knight-in-shining-armor her. If only she would let him. “You all right?”

Anita paused. “Yeah. Let’s practice. I need to shake this off, and I have lessons soon.”

“As you wish.” Patrick nodded gallantly, sweeping into a bow.