Will stood, reaching into his back pocket for his wallet. “Pizza.”
The loud rumble of a car without a muffler, or a crumbling one, idling in her drive provided reassurance along with a lively knock. The door swung open to a red shirted teen holding a pizza box. Nothing to fear unless she considered calories. Forget calories, right now she could benefit from some comfort food. The teen left with a whistle at the sizable tip.
Tonya headed into the kitchen to clear off the table and retrieve a bottle of red wine. Too bad, wine was all she had. Something stronger would help blot out the morass her life had become. The urge to feel sorry for herself overwhelmed, but she couldn’t succumb. Couldn’t fall apart while Will was still here. Too much to do, which now included scouring the house for bugs and cameras. Calling a locksmith would be on the list too. In the end, she had no one, but herself to depend on. Drunk wasn’t an answer, especially with work the next day,
Two pieces of pizza and a glass and half of wine, Will approached the elephant in the room. “Tell me about your stalker.”
“I’d rather not.” No need to talk about her need for human companionship that led her down a dark, dangerous path with her own version of the big bad wolf. If that wasn’t bad enough she compounded her error by thinking she loved the creep. Even gave away parts of herself in an effort to appease the demanding man. Outings with Lynne became practically non-existent since her friend made her disapproval of Clint evident.
His hand covered hers stilling her nervous nail drumming. “I know. Truth is we have to examine everything to know how to keep you safe. What might he do next? You need documentation of what he has done to obtain a protective order.”
An involuntary snort escaped her. Clint respecting a piece of paper that would never happen. Rules, legal or otherwise were not for him. “You do have a point. So far, all I’ve been doing is reacting to Clint’s latest bombs.”
“Understandable.” Will replied and ripped off the flyer from the top of a pizza box. He turned it over to its blank side and pulled a pen from his pocket. “Let’s start with his name.”
Well, so long romance. Nothing kills a budding romance more than discussing a psycho former lover. “I appreciate your help, but I’m only going to cooperate if you let me wash your shirt. I need to start a load if I want clothes tomorrow.”
His answer consisted of loosening and pulling his tie off slowly. In other circumstances, she’d find the move seductive. Even now, her lips canted up on their own as he unbuttoned his shirt. “Don’t get too excited,” he teased, “I have on an undershirt. My grandfather was a tailor. He’d have my hide if I ruined a hand tailored shirt with sweat stains.”
Her first guess that his clothes were expensive proved correct. “All the more reason to get out those pesky grease stains.” He shrugged out his shirt exposing his tightly fitted white t-shirt. She sucked in her lips to keep from whistling. If he looked that good with clothes on, her imagination ran unchecked for a moment stripping him down. Broad shoulders filled out the fabric along with a well-defined chest, not the body of a desk jockey.
He tossed her the shirt, not unlike a stripper, she thought. Shirt in hand, she headed off to washer. Talk about an enigma. That shirt removal reminded her more of an all-male review move. Not that she was an expert on that, far from it. She did see one show when in Vegas for a conference. It had been, her mouth twisted as she tried to remember, four or five years ago. Before Clint, that was for sure. The show consisted of gorgeous toned men of all different nationalities strutting their stuff convincing every woman there that the show was her private fantasy. Tall order considering how many screaming women there were.
A couple squirts of stain treatment and vigorous rubbing prepped the shirt. Warm water, maybe hot to release the grease, she decided spinning the washer dial. Threw in some towels and panties into load, the clothes mixing in the hot water would be more intimate that she and Will would ever get.
The sight of Will with his hands behind his head his biceps bunched reminded her of the male revue. In particularly, one of the dancers. He resembled one that had shimmied near her table, popping his muscles, and wiggling his oiled ass as he slid by increasing the volume of women’s shrieking and wild waving of bills. Couldn’t really remember the man’s face. Too concerned with hiding her own, in case someone was filming the entire show to share on social media. Corporations, especially hers, took a dim view of workers having a social life, especially a fun one. A particularly vivid dragon tattoo on his back caught her eye.
Not for the usual reasons, Tonya shook her head as she remembered thinking about the needles, pain, and time that went into the tattoo. Her fear of needles kept all her tattoos the rub-on variety. Too bad, most of them consisted of rainbows and unicorns. Hard to be alluring with a pink pony on her shoulder.