I grab a bottle of water from the fridge, press it against my forehead, and consider dunking my entire head in ice. “Down, boy,” I mutter to my rebellious anatomy. “This is neither the time nor the appropriate surveillance protocol.” Focus, Rhodes. You have an actual target. A legitimate operation. A purpose that doesn’t involve becoming obsessed with a woman who just caught you spying on her and, instead of calling the police like a normal person, has turned it into some sort of deranged courtship ritual. God help me, I think I’m in love.
