Chapter One
STEVIE
I’m not stalking Dario Marchetti.
I’m conducting a longitudinal study on human behavioral patterns in semi-formal dining environments.
There’s a difference.
Stalking implies intent to harm. Obsession. Criminal activity.
Okay maybe obsession fits, two out of three is good.
So, not a stalker.
Just a woman who happens to know that he comes to Carmine’s every Tuesday at 7:15 PM, orders the linguine, eats for exactly forty-three minutes, tips exactly 22%, and leaves by 8:05.
That’s science. Data collection. The kind of meticulous observation that should earn me a research grant, not a restraining order.
Though to be fair, my high school friend Delilah got both.
This is my fifth consecutive Tuesday here. I’ve memorized his routine down to the number of times he refolds his napkin (three), the way he holds his wine glass (stem, never bowl, like a civilized human), and the exact angle his jaw tightens whensomeone nearby chews too loud. (Two millimeters. Left side only.)
That jaw? Made to be sat on. Looks more comfortable than this chair from where I’m sitting.
I’m very good at noticing things.
Some girls memorize constellations. I could map every tendon in Dario’s neck from memory, sketch his swallow in court-ordered detail.
Maybe it’s evidence. Maybe it’s porn. Who the hell knows.
Jury’s still out.
It’s 7:23 PM and I’m three tables diagonal with a perfect sight line, eating chicken parm I can barely taste because I’m too busy watching the way lamplight catches in his dark hair.
He’s beautiful in that dangerous, controlled way that probably means he has people on retainer to make problems disappear.
I should be attracted to stable men with 401(k)s and emotional availability.
Instead, I’m here. Again. Watching a man who could probably kill me with a dessert fork and make it look like an accident.
My therapist would have thoughts about this.
If I had the self-awareness to call her instead of sitting here thinking about how his hands would feel wrapped around my throat.
Stop.
I take a bite of chicken parm. Chew. Swallow. Pretend to be normal.
Two weeks ago, he looked at me.
Just for a second. Our eyes met while I was observing, and instead of looking away like a person with survival instincts, I smiled.
He smiled back.
It was probably automatic. Muscle memory. The kind of polite acknowledgment you give strangers.
But I’ve been feral about it for fourteen days.
