"Still on the phone?"
Josh, the floor manager and my boss, caught me off guard.
"Just one second," I promised, pressing the phone tight against my ear. Since this morning, my three-year-old, Sophie, had been coughing and complaining about a sore throat. Hearing what Mrs. Gable had to say about how she was doing was far more important to me than a lecture from management.
"Right, I understand. Thanks so much. I'll try not to be late tonight," I said, quickly ending the call with my neighbor.
I hoped Josh had already headed back to the office, but he was still standing right behind me, and his expression didn't look promising. Here we go, I thought. God, he's so young to be such a killjoy. Is being a hard-ass actually part of the job description?
"Anna, how many times do we have to do this?" he started. "The dining room is packed, and you're standing here chatting. Every time I look over, that phone is glued to your ear."
"My daughter is sick. She's running a fever," I explained.
Josh's annoyance softened into concern. "A high one?" he asked.
Why do you care? I thought bitterly. It's not like you're going to offer me sick leave. You wouldn't dream of letting me go home early. Total corporate slave driver.
"It's high. 101.3."
"I see. Who's with her?"
"The usual. My neighbor from down the hall."
"Right. Well, get back out there before the customers start eating the napkins."
What did you expect? my inner voice whispered as I started taking orders. For him to turn into a sweetheart and put on a show of empathy? I don't want anything from him! I snapped back mentally. I just want Sophie to get better fast and to make more money. Kids' medicine costs a fortune these days.
"Good evening," a regular said warmly.
"Evening... the usual?"
The man was in his thirties and came in almost every day. He always ordered two espressos—one immediately, and another thirty minutes later. He never stayed more than an hour, left decent tips, and was remarkably handsome. The waitresses had nicknamed him "The Coffee Guy."
***
I headed to the kitchen to drop off the tickets, but before I could hand them to the chef, our cleaner, Martha, burst in holding a massive bouquet of roses.
"I was sweeping the front steps when a courier pulled up. These are for you, Anna," she said, thrusting the flowers toward me.
"Are you sure you have the right person?"
"What, do you think I'm an idiot?" she grumbled, looking offended. "I can read just fine."
I hadn't even noticed the card tucked into the stems until she pointed it out. I turned the embossed cardstock over in my hands. It looked expensive. I didn't even want to guess what a bouquet of luxury roses cost in the middle of November. Was this really for me?
I opened the card. To the enchanting Anna Miller—my Fair Lady and future wife, it read in handwriting I didn't recognize.
Talk about a bold claim! Still, it felt incredibly good. It had been forever since anyone had given me flowers. I wondered who this "Mister X" could be. Ever since my divorce, I hadn't just lacked a boyfriend—I hadn't even had a casual admirer.
Lost in thought, I didn't notice the other servers and cooks crowding around me. They were gushing over the flowers and peppering me with curious questions about the sender.
"Girls, honestly, I have no—"
I didn't get to finish because the chatter was cut short by Josh's deep voice. "What's all the noise? Is there a fire I should know about?"
"Oh, some secret admirer sent Anna roses," Martha explained.
"Is that a reason to stop working?" Josh barked, and everyone scurried back to their stations. I left too, but not before putting the flowers in water, even though Josh's glare felt like it was burning a hole in my back.
As it turned out, the roses were just the beginning. The "secret admirer" soon started bombarding me with gifts and letters. Generally, I didn't mind the chocolates and trinkets, but the letters were starting to scare me. With each passing day, they grew more intense. There were no direct threats—just feverish declarations of love—but there was a fanatical edge to them. A "screw loose," as my ex-husband would have put it.
But what bothered me most was that "Mister X" seemed to know everything about me: that I was divorced, that I had a young daughter, even which street I lived on. Was he following me?
To make matters worse, Josh was picking on me even more than usual. The arrival of the couriers clearly irritated him.
"You should tell your boyfriend to send this stuff to your house," he snapped one afternoon.
"I would, but I don't know who he is..."
"Right, pull the other one," Josh sneered. "Either way, deal with your personal life at home. Here, you work. Maybe any other time I would have kept my mouth shut—I needed the job—but a sudden wave of anger hit me."
"Josh, why are you always riding me?" I threw the words right in his face. "Mark picks up Megan every single night; he waits for her right in the dining room, and you never say a word to her. But I'm somehow the scapegoat for everything!"
"That's completely different! He comes to make sure she gets home safe. It's dangerous for girls to walk alone at night..."
"Well, I'd gladly trade all the flowers and candy for a guy with a car. You wouldn't happen to know where I can make that swap, would you?"
Josh just shrugged and walked away. I pulled the latest letter from my pocket and re-read it. My love! You will be mine regardless! I will marry you, adopt your beautiful Sophie, and serve my two Queens! No normal man writes like that about someone else's three-year-old. He was clearly unstable. My palms went damp with fear. The feeling of being watched had become constant lately. Every time I stepped outside, I'd spin around, trying to spot a tail, but I never saw anyone. I just felt those eyes on my back.
A little more of this and I'll be fully paranoid, I thought dryly. I managed to suppress the panic, but the dread remained. I picked up a tray of drinks and headed out to the floor. Right then, a courier arrived with another bouquet. In a fit of nerves, I shoved the flowers straight into the trash can.
If this creep was in the room, I wanted him to see that I didn't give a damn about his flowers.
"You don't like roses?" The Coffee Guy asked as I set his first espresso down.
"I love them—from people I actually know!"
"Fair point," he said with a smile.
See, there are normal guys out there, I thought. If someone like him asked me to a movie, I wouldn't hesitate for a second. Such a handsome, serious man. Not like that lunatic Mister X.
***
Three hours later, exhausted, cold, and hungry, I was walking down a deserted street, dreaming of nothing but my front door. No one was walking behind me, but a car was trailing. It was moving so slowly that I crossed the street just in case and walked along the edge of the park.
I didn't hear footsteps. Whoever was waiting for me in the dark must have been hiding behind a tree.
Suddenly, hands clamped around my throat like a vice. A whistling whisper pulsed in my ear: "Why don't you like the flowers, my Queen? Don't you love me?"
The grip loosened slightly as one of his hands slid down, reaching under my coat and sweater. I tried to scream, but terror had paralyzed my throat.
Suddenly—blinding headlights, the screech of tires, heavy footsteps, and an incredible force slammed into the dark figure, throwing him off me. I fell to my hands and knees, my heart hammering. The impact hurt my leg, but the shock finally brought my voice back.
"Help!" I screamed at the top of my lungs.
"Stop yelling!" someone ordered. It was a familiar voice... Josh. "Just call 911."
Minutes later, the police arrived and took the attacker away. It was The Coffee Guy. I spent the next hour at the station explaining the stalking and filing a report. Josh sat nearby the whole time, looking grim.
"Get in the car," he said when we finally stepped back outside.
"Thanks, but I'm okay. I can—"
"No. I'm driving you home."
"How did you even end up there?" I asked, surprised to find myself dropping the formal tone. "You live on the complete opposite side of town."
"It's part of the job—saving staff from maniacs," Josh said with a mock-heroic flourish. Maybe it was just a release of tension, but we both started laughing so hard we got the hiccups.
We sat in his car outside my building for a long time, just talking about nothing. When it was time to go, Josh asked if I wanted to take Sophie to see a movie this Saturday.
He's not a killjoy after all... I thought happily as the elevator doors closed.
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