248Hey, this is fun to write.
Chapter One
I've been sitting out here for way too long. I know that. But I can't help myself. I'm a lurker on any given day of the week, but there is something just different about Sundays. He taunts me every single fucking day. And on Sundays? On Sundays, he performs for me. And he doesn't even know it. Neither does he know about my obsession with the way his muscular shoulders almost break through the expensive material of his dress shirts. Or the way I just drool at the thought of digging my nails into those very shoulders as he fucks me into oblivion.
Of course, he doesn't know that. And I bet there are a lot of things that escape Mr. Cullen's attention. Like the existence of me, for example. Even though we live across the street from each other, we haven't even spoken once. Hell, he hasn't even looked at me. How could he even have noticed me, anyway? He's out at the crack of dawn, and only gets back home to park his Jaguar SUV back on the driveway after dark. I think he's a big-shot something at the top of some company judging by the house-the best in the entire neighborhood, the expensive car, and the clothing. Plus, his darling wife, Mrs. Cullen works part-time at the high school. And I don't think her paycheck stretches far enough to be able to strut around town in Louboutin's finest. She's kinda Stepford-looking with a hint of trophy-wife slash socialite, with strawberry blond hair and disgustingly sweet smiles. Plus, she has the body of a wasp. I don't know who she thinks she is, but her nose is up in the air every time I see her. I bet she thinks she's shitting out golden nuggets. And that she's the parent of the year for dressing up her little son as a golf-playing, opera-going, rich-as-fuck snob instead of letting him be a goddamn kid.
I take a deep breath, erasing the thoughts of her as I gaze outside, the patch of sunlight on the front lawn catching my attention. Goosebumps rise on the length of my arms as I twirl my ponytail around my finger and lick my lips.
Sunday. But he's not here yet.
Glancing at the clock, I realize I must have made some miscalculation here, because I thought since he got back around ten, he left the house at nine. But seeing as it's ten past nine a.m. right now, that ship has sailed. I was wrong. And it eats at me.
Impatient and aggravated, I strap on my sneakers, tugging at the lace frill of my socks, and make my way downstairs. I take a break in front of the hallway mirror, biting my lip before tugging my ponytail so tight it makes my face hurt.
This outfit isn't too much, I decide. It leaves the right amount of mystery to keep him guessing. There's no way to come out guns blazing. Nana used to tell me all men like mystery. They like unpacking and ribbons. And it's safe to say my Nana was the expert on men in the family. Before she got old and lost her memory, she got married. A lot of times.
My mom didn't really get that men-seeking gene, though. She only got married once, at eighteen. And right when she got pregnant with me, about two months into the marriage, the guy fled the fucking country to work with Doctors Without Borders. Mom filed for divorce ten months after he promised to call home. He never did, by the way. The sperm donor just sends us cheques. I never even got a postcard from Africa, for crying out loud. I bet stamps are way cheaper than those alimony payments. He should've kept pretending. At least for me.
I take a deep breath in, thanking my lucky stars I'm ninety-five percent my mother. I couldn't fathom looking at that bastard's face every time I saw my reflection.
"Bell?" My mother seems surprised to see me. She's sitting at the kitchen table, a big mug of steaming hot coffee accompanying her laptop, music wafting softly from the sound system. "I thought you were gonna sleep in, sweetheart," she goes on, perching her glasses on top of her head. I almost snort at the state of her hair: dark locks up in the messiest bun I've ever seen.
"I woke up with an itch to experiment," I say with a glee smile.
"I forgot to buy that buckwheat flour, dear, we won't be able to make those pancakes after all." She looks sorry, but I just laugh, motioning to my outfit.
"No, Mom, this morning I'm not chasing carbs. I mean, can't you tell?"
She simply shakes her head.
"I'm gonna go chase that runners' high everyone keeps talking about."
And then, my mother starts to burst out in laughter.
"Watch out, mother dearest, or you'll ruin the botox."
She laughs even harder.
"Please, we both know I'm naturally flawless, Bell." That's true though. Then again, she's only thirty-five in a sea of forty-something housewives living in this part of town.
"I keep reading you're supposed to get it like, preventative, so it won't break the bank when you do actually get wrinkles," I tell her.
"Don't deflect, Bell." I'm rewarded that talking about my mother's aging only gets me a bitchy attitude. "Why the hell are you going on a run? It's Sunday morning for crying out loud." Mom gets up to pour herself more coffee. The smell alone makes me want to go change into giant sweats and throw some croissants into the oven.
"I've run before..." I lie.
"Sure you have," Mom starts, looking over her shoulder. "From your problems."
"Love you too, Mom." I laugh and turn on my heels, back into the hallway, out the front door.
My heart hammers inside my chest, violently.
You're a creepy stalker, I remind myself. It's all Mr. Cullen's fault though. Not my fault he's too gorgeous not to be completely obsessed with.