— Talking on the phone again? — John, the café administrator and my boss, caught me off guard.
“Just one second,” I promised, keeping the phone pressed to my ear. My three-year-old daughter had been coughing since morning and complaining about a sore throat, so I was anxious to hear what Mrs. Alice Johnson had to say about Lily’s condition. That was far more important than any scolding from my boss. — “Yes, yes, I understand, thank you so much. I’ll try not to stay late today,” I quickly wrapped up the conversation with my neighbor from the shared apartment. I hoped John had already left to deal with his administrative tasks, but he was still standing behind me, his expression promising nothing good. “Here we go…” I thought. “God, so young and such a nag… Or is it part of his job description?”
— Emma, how many times do I have to tell you? — my boss began his managerial lecture. — The dining area is full of customers, and you’re busy chatting. Every time I look, your phone’s glued to your ear.
— My daughter’s sick. She has a fever, — I explained.
John softened a bit: — Is it high? — he asked, sounding concerned. “What’s it to you?” I thought angrily. “You’re not going to offer me sick leave or let me go home early. Exploiter!”
— High. 101.3°F.
— Got it. Who’s with her now?
— As usual, my neighbor from the apartment.
— Got it. Well, get back to the dining area before the customers start chewing napkins out of hunger.
“What did you expect?” my inner voice whispered as I took customers’ orders. “That he’d melt into a puddle of sympathy and put on a show of compassion?” — “I don’t want anything!” I snapped back mentally. — “Just for Lily to get better soon and for a bit more money. Kids’ medicine costs a fortune these days.”
— Good evening, — one of our regular customers said warmly.
— Good evening… The usual?
This man, about thirty, came to the café almost every day. He always ordered two espressos—one first, then another thirty minutes later. He never stayed longer than an hour, always left decent tips, and was remarkably charming. The waitresses privately called him “Coffee Guy.”
I headed to the kitchen to pass on the orders, but before I could reach the chef, the cleaner, Mrs. Valerie, rushed in holding a huge bouquet of roses.
— I was sweeping the front steps when a courier showed up… These are for you, Anna, — she handed me the flowers.
— Are you sure you didn’t mix things up?!
— What, you think I’m a complete idiot? — she huffed. — I can read, thank God.
Only after her words did I notice the card attached to the bouquet. I turned the embossed piece of cardboard in my hands. Expensive—probably at least $5. I didn’t even want to guess how much such stunning roses cost in mid-November. Could they really be for me? I opened the card. “To the enchanting Anna Carter—my Beautiful Lady and future wife,” it read in completely unfamiliar handwriting. Quite a statement! But it was undeniably flattering. It had been ages since anyone gave me flowers. Who could this mysterious Mr. X be? Since my divorce, I hadn’t had so much as a single admirer, let alone a lover.
Lost in these thoughts, I didn’t notice that I’d been surrounded by waitresses and cooks. They were gushing over the flowers and bombarding me with questions about the sender, barely hiding their curiosity.
— Girls, honestly, I have no idea… I didn’t get to finish because the chatter of female voices was drowned out by John’s booming tone: — What’s all this noise, and no fight to go with it?
— Someone sent Anna roses, a secret admirer, — Mrs. Valerie explained eagerly.
“Is that an excuse to slack off?” — the boss barked, and everyone quickly scattered back to their stations. I left too, but not before putting the roses in water, despite the administrator’s glare practically burning a hole in my back. The roses, as it turned out, were just the beginning (pardon the unintentional pun). The “main course” that followed wasn’t as sweet as I’d hoped. After the bouquet, the anonymous admirer bombarded me with gifts and letters. I didn’t mind the chocolates or cute trinkets, but the letters scared me, more and more each day. There were no direct threats—just passionate declarations of love—but they had a fanatical intensity, an over-the-top fervor, as my ex-husband would have put it. What worried me most was that Mr. X, judging by the letters, knew far too much about me: that I was divorced, that I had a little daughter, and even the street I lived on. Was he following me?
To make matters worse, John started nitpicking more than usual, clearly annoyed by the courier deliveries. — You should tell your admirer to send gifts to your home address, — he snapped one day.
— I would, but I don’t know who it is…
— A likely story, — he smirked. — Either way, personal matters belong at home. Here, you work! Normally, I might have stayed quiet—I valued my job too much—but a wave of anger hit me.
— John, why are you always on my case? — I blurted out. — Sarah’s boyfriend picks her up every evening, waits for her right in the dining area, and you never say a word to her. But I’m your scapegoat!
— That’s different! He’s there to take her home. It’s not safe for girls to walk alone at night…
— I’d gladly trade all the flowers and chocolates for a guy with a car. Got any leads on that deal?
The boss shrugged and walked away. I pulled the latest letter from Mr. X out of my pocket and reread it. “My beloved! You’ll be mine no matter what! I’ll marry you, adopt your beautiful Lily, and serve my Queens!” No normal guy would write like that about someone else’s three-year-old. This guy was clearly unhinged. My palms grew sweaty with fear, heightened by the constant feeling, whenever I stepped outside, that someone was watching me. I kept looking over my shoulder, trying to spot my stalker, but saw no one, though I could feel a piercing gaze on my back.
“A little more of this, and I’ll be paranoid,” I thought wryly. I managed to keep the panic at bay, but the fear lingered. I grabbed a tray of orders and went to serve customers. Just then, another courier arrived with a bouquet. I was so on edge that I shoved the flowers into the trash can in a fit of anger.
If this creep is in the dining area, let him see I don’t care about his flowers!
— Don’t you like roses? — Coffee Guy asked as I set his first espresso in front of him.
— I do, but only from people I know!
— Fair enough, — he smiled. “There are normal guys out there…” I thought. “If this one asked me to the movies, I wouldn’t hesitate for a second—such a nice, serious man. Not like that deranged Mr. X.” Three hours later, exhausted, cold, and hungry, I walked down a deserted street, longing only to get home. No one was following me, but a car was creeping along slowly. Just to be safe, I crossed to the other side and walked along the park. I heard no footsteps behind me—obviously, whoever was lurking in the dark was hiding behind a tree. Suddenly, hands clamped around my throat, and a hissing whisper pulsed in my ear: — Why don’t you like the flowers, my queen? Don’t you like me? The grip loosened briefly, one hand sliding under my jacket and sweater. I wanted to scream, but terror paralyzed me. Then—headlights blinding my eyes, the screech of brakes, heavy footsteps, and some force yanked the dark figure away from me. I fell to my knees, pain shooting through one as I hit the ground, but my voice finally returned. — Help! — I screamed.
— Stop yelling! — someone ordered in… John’s voice. — Call the police instead. Minutes later, a patrol car took the attacker—Coffee Guy—away. For the next hour, I recounted the creepy courtship to the police and filed a report. John sat beside me the whole time, looking grim. — Get in the car, — he said as we stepped outside.
— Thanks, but I’ll manage…
— No way. I’m driving you home.
— Wait, how did you end up here? — I asked, surprising myself by switching to a first-name basis. — You live on the other side of town!
— It’s my job to save employees from maniacs, — he said with mock grandeur. Maybe it was a stress reaction, but we laughed so hard we both started hiccupping. We sat in his car outside my building for a long time, chatting about nothing in particular. When we said goodbye, John suggested we go to the movies on Saturday—the three of us, with Lily, to see a cartoon. “He’s not a nag at all…” I thought happily as I stepped into the elevator.
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