Page 65 of With Spite

But it made me overly angry that someone had bought her something so intimate that wasn’t me…

“Hux?”

I looked up just as I closed the lid of the trash can, making sure it was secure.

“Yeah?”

“I was going to do that.”

“It’s already done.” I shrugged. “You’re dressed.”

She looked down at herself. “It’s cold.”

I should’ve gone back inside so I could see her in her panties and t-shirt a little longer.

In fact, I was kind of kicking myself for not going right back in.

I pushed through the door and kicked my boots off in the plastic tub she had set aside for them and washed my hands.

I didn’t tell her my suspicions—that someone was going through her panties and planned to come back for them.

I did, however, pull my phone out and shoot a text to Thumper, one of the newest members of the Dixie Wardens MC, and asked him to get by here this afternoon to get the cameras set up.

Thumper was a security guy.

He’d been in intelligence in the Army and had all the connections that he could ever want or need. He had access to the newest technology—through a top-secret government job that he took after leaving the Army—and had done all the security for me at the shop, as well as my house. He’d also helped me set up some circumspect cameras at Bernice’s place in the front of the house.

Me:

Can you get coverage on Bernice’s backyard today? Should’ve listened to you.

Thumper:

Sure. I can get there in an hour. And there is a reason that I’m the expert and you’re not.

I didn’t bother to agree with him.

I should’ve listened. However, I’d wanted to be at least a little bit in control. I couldn’t very well put cameras inside and out at her place. For one, her brother might figure out that I was obsessed with his sister. And for two, Bernice deserved privacy.

She couldn’t have privacy, though, and still be safe.

I should’ve gotten this step figured out when I’d heard about the serial killer.

A misstep on my part.

Both for not paying attention—I should’ve known about a serial killer seeing as I stalked her for the last five years—and for not fixing an obvious hole after finding out.

“Do you, uh, have to go?”

“No,” I answered. “But I was going to ask if you wanted to go have breakfast with me.”

She blinked.

“And would you also want to go see my new apartment with me?” I found myself asking. “I’m building out the top floor of the warehouse that The Mercantile and my butcher shop occupy.”

It was Saturday.

Usually, I would find myself at work.