Page 63 of Stolen Touches

“Yes.”

“Are you expecting someone to storm the building? Did they announce an imminent earthquake?” I ask.

“No.”

“Then why?”

“Because I told you to.”

“Would a text message suffice instead?”

“No. I need to hear your voice.”

Okay. We need to talk about this. I stand up and placemy palms on his cheeks, looking into his eyes. “Can you explain? Please?”

His piercing light brown gaze bores into me. “I’m not sure you’ll understand, Milene.”

“Try me.”

Salvatore’s hand comes to the waistband of my jeans. He hooks his finger on a belt loop and pulls me down to sit on his thigh. I raise an eyebrow in question, waiting for him to explain, but he just watches me for a few seconds, lips pressed tightly together.

“I have... a problem,” he bites out the words. I already figured Salvatore didn’t tolerate weakness, and it seems very hard for him to be confessing one now.

“Do you think I’m cheating on you when you’re not around?”

“No. It doesn’t have anything to do with that.” He places the tip of his finger onto my forearm, stroking my skin lightly. “When I was in the office today, even knowing you were here, I felt compelled to call and confirm. I can’t control it, Milene. I’ve tried.”

“Is it like some kind of anxiety?”

“Yes, but ten times worse.”

“Do you have this... compulsion with anyone else? Your employees?”

“Just you.”

I blink at him in confusion. “Why? And why so suddenly? Have I done anything to trigger this?”

“It’s not sudden, Milene. I’ve barely managed to control it for these past weeks.” He reaches out with his other hand and strokes my cheek. “You will call me every hour. Please.”

“Will it go away?” I ask. “This compulsion.”

“I don’t think so.” His face is grim, and I see he doesn’t enjoy asking this of me. He’s right, I don’t understand.

Salvatore gives the impression of a highly composed individual, but the more I think about it, the more I realize that many of his reactions have not been exactly normal. Like in the parking lot when someone shot at us. No one should be that calm and controlled under fire, but then freak out when I go to the floor below without informing him beforehand. I’ve also never seen him smile. He’s a little odd—I knew that from the start—but this doesn’t seem like a silly quirk. I think he actually has a problem, and I’m not sure he’s telling me everything.

“Well, I hope it won’t get worse, because I’m not letting you into the bathroom when I have to pee.” I lean forward and touch my nose to his. “How often do you need me to call you?”

He closes his eyes and brushes his nose against mine. It’s such an unexpected and tender gesture, so completely at odds with his character, that it elicits a tenderness in my heart, like a warm hug comforting me from within.

“When I’m in the office, every two hours,” he says and looks at me. “But when I’m not in the building, every hour, on the hour.”

“And what do you want me to tell you when I call?”

“Whatever. Doesn’t matter.”

“Okay.” I nod and stroke his hair. “What will we do when I have to go somewhere?”

“I’ll be accompanying you from now on.”