I’ve silently watched her for a year, staying hidden in the shadows, biding my time.
She may know me as two different men, but she doesn’t have a clue what I’ve done.
She unknowingly became mine the minute my eyes touched her beauty.
But I’ve done things. Things she may not be able to forgive.
I know all her secrets, her habits, her preferred coffee, what she does in her spare time, her favorite lingerie brand, even that she sleeps naked.
At night, I watch her from her window. During the day, I watch her from my computer. She innocently bares her heart and body to me, and I soak up every single fucking second.
I’ve stayed away, but I’m tired of watching from afar. It’s time Poppy finds out just who I am and what I’m willing to do to take what’s mine. She may hate me when she finds out what I’ve done, but she has no choice but to accept it.
She will be my wife.
She will mother my children.
I will claim every part of her heart, body, and soul.
Anything else is unacceptable.
Poppy Lexington has become my endless obsession. I will become her uncontrollable addiction.
Unknown: Have you enjoyed the flowers I’ve sent you?
I freeze, except for my eyes, which pop open wide in shock. My breath gets caught in my throat when I realize this must be my mystery flower guy.
Why in the world is he texting me? After all this time, why contact me now? And what in the hell do I say to him? It’s become a routine. I’ve gotten used to getting the roses and not knowing who they are from. Question after question runs through my mind. Who is he? Why send me flowers? Why not introduce himself? Where did he first see me? How did he find out where I worked? And how in the hell did he get my number?
That’s my number one question, so I ask him.
Me: How did you get my number?
It only takes seconds for me to receive a reply, and I’m not sure how to take it.
Unknown: I have my ways. You didn’t answer my question.
He has his ways? What is that supposed to mean? My chest tightens with fear at his answer. I push back the fear and ask another question I’m dying to know.
Me: They’re beautiful, thank you. Who are you?
Unknown: You’ll find out soon enough.
Umm… say what? Another question avoided. My eyes narrow in suspicion.
Me: I’m not sure I like that answer. I have no idea who you are. What if I don’t want to know you once I find out?
I notice the time on my phone and pull the second thigh-high up my leg, keeping my eyes on the screen the entire time. This is really weird, him having my number. I’m sure it’s not too hard to get the information, but it’s the point that he went through the trouble to get it. I hate being left in the dark like this.
My phone dings again, and I quickly grab it.
Unknown: You’ll want to know me. Trust me.
Trust him? That’s laughable. How can he think I’ll trust him when I have no idea who he is?
Me: It’s hard to trust someone I don’t know.
I slip my feet in my heels as I wait for him to reply. It’s doesn’t take long.
Unknown: You’ll learn.
Unsure of how to respond to that, I walk back to the kitchen to get a travel mug of coffee ready. He seems so confident, and cocky. Maybe a little too much, since it’s coming from a total stranger. How can he be so sure?
I type out my original question again.
Me: Who are you?
I grip my phone in frustration. Now that he’s contacted me, the need to know who sends me roses every week is overwhelming. It’s no longer a curiosity—I need to know. I should be more afraid, but I’m not, and that gives me pause. Why am I not more fearful? He’s obviously hiding something, right? But what?
He sends another text before I get a chance to reply.
Unknown: Have a good day at work, Beautiful.
What? That’s it? He has flowers delivered to me every week for eight months, messages me out of the blue with cryptic messages, then wishes me a good day at work? Pissed off vibes has my gut clenching. How dare he contact me and leave me hanging.
Me: That’s it? That’s all I get out of you?
I flip the off switch on the coffee pot, grab my now full travel mug, my purse, and with phone still in hand, I leave my house, locking it up behind me.
I’m buckling my seatbelt when he replies.
Unknown: For now, yes.
Oh no, that doesn’t work for me. He needs to give me something. He can’t just expect me to accept his non-answers.
Me: How do you know me? How do you know where I work?
Unknown: I know a lot of things about you, Poppy.
Me: You’re not helping your case of me wanting to know you. It’s freaking me out that you know stuff about me, personal stuff, when I don’t even know your name. That’s not normal. It’s pretty stalkerish, don’t you think?
I notice the time on my phone again and see I have a few minutes before I need to leave, so I decide to wait for his reply.
Unknown: Just call me Mr. A for now. Have a safe trip to work.
Alex Grayson is originally from the south, but has recently moved to Northern Ohio. Although she misses the warmth of Florida and often times detest the cold of Ohio, she absolutely loves living in the north. Her and her husband bought a house on two acres of land and live there with their daughter, son, one dogs, two cats, eight ducks, and three chickens. She hopes to eventually get a couple of goats to add to their country way of living. Besides her family and home, her next best passion is reading. She is often found with her nose obsessively stuck in a book, much to the frustration of her husband and daughter. On more than one occasion Alex found herself wanting a book to go a certain way, but it didn’t. With these thoughts in mind, she decided to start writing stories according to her own visions. Although this is a new endeavor for her, she hopes that readers find her concepts on romance intriguing and captivating. Alex welcomes and encourages feedback, of any kind. She can be contacted at email@example.com.