There was no denying that what I’d felt when I’d walked in that gym and felt his gaze on me was attraction, though.
It was such a long buried sensation that it had taken me an embarrassingly long time to call it what it was.
As soon as I was aware of it, though, it bloomed across my chest and blazed a path downward, making it hard even to look at him.
Especially when we were discussing Eren. The man who I had the least amount of attraction to as possible.
And there he was.
Holding up two different kinds of pre-made guacamole containers, weighing the options like they were of the utmost importance.
I pushed my cart over toward him, knowing it drew attention, but he kept his gaze focused on his selections until I blurted out, “Are you following me?”
“Now, how can you accuse me of that?” he asked, shooting a smirk in my direction. “When I was here first,” he added.
That cocky smile of his shouldn’t have been as sexy as it was. And I damn sure shouldn’t have been noticing it. Let alone feeling affected by it.
“I’ve never seen you here before.”
It was an accusation, which only made that light in his dark eyes shine even brighter.
“I wanted to try out a new place. You know my place only has one kind of guacamole? And they call that a market,” he said, clucking his tongue.
“Why are you following me? It was a mistake. To agree to meet you. To actually do it. It was all a mistake.”
“Maybe,” he agreed, reaching out to run his fingers over the strap of my purse that I’d placed in the front of my cart. “Then again, maybe not.”
“Do you understand what could happen to me if I get caught talking to you. Whoever the hell you even are,” I said, realizing that I’d given him a bunch of information, but he hadn’t even given me his name.
“Yeah, babe, yeah, I do,” he agreed, nodding as his gaze moved away.
And there was just something in that gesture that had me losing some of my anger. Because I could see that, yes, he actually did understand. Somehow or another.
“But your husband is in a meeting across town right now,” he went on, shrugging. “So, I think you’re pretty safe. Unless your guilty conscience gets the better of you, and you say something.”
Right.
Like I would invite a beating onto myself.
“Who are you? What do you want from me?” I asked, lowering my voice, not wanting anyone to overhear.
It wasn’t like everyone in the neighborhood knew who Eren was. He thought they did, but most people had no idea. But I didn’t want any casual eavesdropper to think something was wrong and call for a manager or, worse yet, the police.
“Way things look, think you can call me a friend.”
“I meant what is your name?”
To that, his gaze shifted away, like he was considering if he should tell me or not.
Ultimately, I guess he decided that I couldn’t really do him any damage. Not without sustaining some of my own.
“Brio.”
“Brio,” I repeated. “What do you want from me?”
“That’s a good question,” he agreed, nodding.
“Ah, are you going to answer it?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“Okay. I don’t have time for this,” I declared, taking my cart and pushing it around him. Even though I knew he was going to follow me.
He was right there, pretending to pick out avocados while I grabbed tomatoes. And perusing the selection the salad bar had to offer while I grabbed potatoes.
“Stop following me.”
“I’m just doing shopping.”
“You have three things in your basket.”
“What can I say? I’m not much of a vegetable eater,” he admitted with a shrug.
“And yet here you are, in every part of the produce section.”
“I’m a browser,” he said, running his hand over the side of the onion baskets.
“Stalker, more like,” I grumbled to myself, trying to focus on my list even with his presence everywhere I turned.
It wasn’t strange to me that someone might be watching Eren.
He screwed everyone over in business, and was prideful—or stupid—enough to think no one would ever find out, let alone do anything about it.
But, clearly, someone had copped on. And they were doing some surveillance work to figure out how to best come at Eren.
My gaze slid to his from under my lashes, taking in his outfit.
Black jeans.
Black button-down.
And a pair of dark gray Tims.
Which didn’t scream any sort of organized crime to me. They tended to favor suits, bowling shirts, and polos. Usually with at least a little flash of jewelry.
This guy didn’t fit in with any of that.
But maybe he was just a contractor for one of the more established organizations.
I wasn’t sure if that made him more—or less—dangerous.
Then again, though, if he meant me harm, why would he have prevented me from Eren’s rage on the street?