Page 49 of Problematic

The next camera went above the kitchen cabinet. Then the bookshelf. Then the hallway, angled toward the back door. All necessary. All practical. All part of a security system that would make sure no one entered her space without my knowledge.

Except me.

The thought landed badly. I picked up the final micro from the case. Meant for the bedroom. I turned toward the half-open door.

Her bedroom was small. Too small for me. A narrow bed pushed against the wall. A thrifted lamp with a crooked shade. A nightstand buried under books and cheap lip balm and a hair tie stretched nearly to death. One drawer sat half open, soft fabric caught in the gap. Laundry basket in the corner. Shoes kicked under the bed. A shirt draped over the chair.

I stood near the bed with the camera pinched between gloved fingers, looking at the place where she slept, where she changed clothes, where she read the parts of those books that made her blush and argue with herself in the dark.

The practical part of my mind spoke first.

The bedroom window faced the fire escape. Weak latch. Old frame. Bad angle from the hall. Anyone with a pulse and ambition could get inside. Security demanded coverage.

The sheets were rumpled. Not messy or careless, just lived in. Her pillow held the faint indent of her head, and a strand of brown hair curled against the cotton. My fingers moved before my restraint could catch up. I picked up the strand. Tiny thing. Barely anything, but it felt important sitting in my hand.

I should have dropped it, but I didn’t. I wrapped it once around my finger, slow, testing the texture like an idiot.

“Congratulations,” I muttered. “New low.”

The hair clung to the leather. I set it on the nightstand beside her book instead of taking it, because, apparently, kidnapping a single strand of hair felt too deranged even for me tonight.

My gaze fell to the book on the nightstand. Same series. Different volume. A corner marked near the last third. Of course, I opened it. Purely to understand the contents.

The contents involved a man kneeling between a woman’s thighs and making a very convincing argument with his mouth.

I closed the book.

I opened it again.

I read three more pages and found myself increasingly irritated with a man who didn’t exist. He had her attention. Her blush. A folded corner just for him. He was ink. I was flesh, money, and bad decisions. The fact that I was losing to a paperback felt personal. The book on her nightstand was clearly a mistake.

Not hers.

Mine.

I should have left it there. I should have finished the cameras, checked the locks, and gotten out before her scent turned my brain into horny goop. Instead, I smiled at it like an idiot with a death wish and an erection.

The fictional man had the heroine pressed against a wall, one hand at her throat, his mouth near her ear, telling her she wanted fear because fear made her honest.

I read the line twice.

Then I laughed under my breath.

“Lazy.”

I took my pen from inside my coat. Crossed out the sentence and wrote beneath it.

Fear is easy. Make her curious.

The ink looked obscene on the page. Mine inside something she touched in bed. Mine beside a sentence that had made her fold the corner down and lie to herself about why. I turned another page. The man in the book grabbed the heroine’s wrist when she tried to leave. I crossed that out too.

If she stays, it means more.

That one sat there meaner than I meant it to be.

My jaw tightened.

I flipped deeper.