He’s been watching me, studying me . . . and I hate that I love it. That I crave his attention like it’s oxygen. That some part of me wants to belong to him, even when I know I shouldn’t. I should be creeped out. Should be irritated by his presumption. Any reasonable person would have questions about a man who can guess their exact size down to the half-inch of a boot heel. And the old Sloane—the one who always plays it safe, who never rocks the boat—would put on the dress as expected.
