It’s not stalking if they’re your neighbor , I think to myself as I peer through the slats of my blinds. A tall man with dark hair slides out of a sleek, pitch-black sports car. I follow his movements, my eyebrows raising in appreciation. I’ve heard men frown on being called beautiful, but that’s exactly what he is. He opens the door to the storage container that was delivered yesterday–I know this because I was spying then too–and lugs a large cardboard box out. He’s wearing a long-sleeve black t-shirt, but I can tell by the fit that he’s hiding all sorts of muscles beneath the material. The
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