Free Every Breath You Take by Bianca Sloane

years. . .” she shook her head.
    “I’ve been wanting to say it for a while—okay, day one if I’m being honest, but I just—” he shrugged. “I mean, I can’t say it any simpler than that. I love you. So much. You have no idea.”
    “Me too,” she whispered.
    He laughed. “Is this gonna be like a Patrick Swayze thing where she says ‘I love you’ and he says ‘ditto,’ but you never actually
say
it?”
    “What are you talking about?”
    “Wow. Yet another movie to add to the pile.”
    “I love you. Love, love, love,” she said, blotting her eyes again and laughing.
    “Now that’s what I’m talking about, Scotty,” he winked. “Come on. Let’s have a little more wine, a little chocolate, and then I’m gonna head home.”
    “You don’t have to. What I mean is . . . stay.”
    “Baby,” he whispered. “Tomorrow is Thursday and the first time I make love to you, I’m not gonna let something like having to get up and go to work stop me.”
    Natalie melted . . . just like the chocolate.

Chapter 14
HE
    H e stood on the sidewalk staring up at the windows of her building.
    Her departure for the steel and glass of this high-rise building from the wooden quaintness of her last apartment had saddened and angered him. There, he’d been able to be close to her, watch her, learn her secrets, perfect the—at that time—hazy details of his plan.
    She was living in a ramshackle three-flat in Wrigleyville, one of those rambling old buildings outfitted with a sprawling maze of rooms, cracking pink bathroom tiles, squealing wooden floors, and back doors that with the rise in summer’s humidity were forever swelling against their weak, helpless frames. It was one of those buildings where “location” not “luxury” was the major selling point, given its proximity to the vine-covered brick of Wrigley Field, abundant public transportation, and equal measure of trendy boutiques and bars awash in beer and the crackle of broken peanut shells beneath your feet seven nights a week.
    Like most people, she was an extreme creature of habit. She woke up at five and every Monday, Wednesday and Friday, went for a run before spooning gloppy strawberry yogurt into her mouth as she scurried to catch the Red Line at Addison a few blocks away. She was usually in the office every morning by eight and more often than not hurrying into a cab once it got past eight in the evening. A lot of times, she went to events related to her job: parties, receptions, dinners. Sometimes, she would come straight back to the office afterward. Sometimes, she went out after work with co-workers, which allowed him to slink unnoticed into a dark corner of a bar and just watch her. She spent at least one day of the weekend working and, without fail, when she was done, she went out with those two girls she liked to hang around with.
    And every day, he was there, sitting on the bus-stop bench waiting for a bus he would never board. All so he could watch and learn.
    Until one day, it had no longer been enough. He needed to get closer. Needed to feel her. Needed more.
    Getting in had almost been a joke. An air conditioner hung over the ledge of her bedroom window, which was near the back stairs. He’d been able to kick it in, wincing a bit as it crashed against the floor, comforted only by the fact that he knew the neighbors were at work, saving him from the worry of some hysterical female creeping up the stairs to swing a bat at his head or the cops storming in to interrupt him.
    Standing in her bedroom had sent chills through him. Initially, all he
could
do was stand there, turning around over and over, soaking in the details of her room like a blind man who’d finally been granted sight, the smile he’d been holding in for so long finally bursting forth. He went to her dresser to fondle each bottle of perfume, jealous of the droplets sliding down her skin, nestling into the sweet, hidden crevices. Opening her dresser drawers had been an equally