Page 15 of Willing Prey

For fifteen minutes I sit in the parking lot, answering emails on my phone.

I’m far enough from the building to go unnoticed, but close enough to keep an eye on the patrons coming and going.

When a small green pickup pulls in and parks in front of the building, I put down my phone.

Claire climbs out of the vehicle. She’s wearing leggings, a navy North Face jacket, a gray beanie, and hiking boots.

Face flushed and wind-kissed, her hair in a messy knot at the nape of her neck, she must have come straight from a hike.

Leaning back into the cab—fuck, her ass is incredible—she emerges with one of those cross-body backpacks and a reusable water bottle.

I watch her unscrew the cap and drink with a level of fascination that would be appropriate for more X-rated activities.

Where does she hike?

There are several trail systems in and around Newbound, Maine, where the Green Bean and the firm are located.

Would running into her at one of those be more advantageous than the coffee shop encounters I keep arranging?

I decide against it. Besides the impracticality of trying to figure out where she hikes, bumping into me in a coffee shop is very different from bumping into me in the woods.

I’m toeing the line of propriety as is; sitting in a parking lot of a trailhead waiting for her to arrive might take me from intensely interested admirer to creepy motherfucker.

Despite my impatience, I stay put. Walking in right after her is too obvious.

I need to give her time to get her drink and settle in.

Two women walk into the coffee shop. I recognize them from previous visits—one’s a math teacher, and I’m fairly certain the other is the school counselor.

I don’t know their names. The one woman in Claire’s friend group whose name I do know, Sydney, is absent today.

Grabbing my laptop bag from the passenger seat, it’s all I can do not to head in.

Give them a few minutes.

I wait seven, which feels generous. Then I’m crossing the parking lot, mentally cursing the brisk wind that cuts through my denim jacket and sends an empty paper cup cartwheeling across the pavement in front of me.

I try to step on it, but the breeze carries it away before I can.

Speeding up, I finally snatch the cup and drop it into the designated bin outside the door.

Stepping into the Green Bean is like stepping into summer.

If a place could cure seasonal affective disorder, this one could.

The heater is cranked high. Scarves are draped over seatbacks, and coats are piled on empty chairs.

Plants are scattered throughout the spacious coffee shop, lush and vibrant, a stark contrast to the dreary Maine March outside.

Natural light streams in through the floor-to-ceiling windows during the summer, and sunlight-mimicking artificial lighting fills the spaces the windows can’t reach, keeping a cheerful atmosphere on even the grayest days.

The couple who own Green Thumb Nursery, Britney and Amanda Fitzner, also own the Green Bean.

They were one of my first clients when I started at the firm, and they’re still with us.

I see Claire and a few other women at a table near a mini forest of fiddle-leaf figs.

There are several possible seats I could take that would put me in earshot.

Excellent. I go through the line and get my beverage, then settle myself at a small table on the other side of the trees.

Claire’s back is to me, and she’s fully absorbed in conversation.

Unpacking my laptop and putting in my earbuds, I open the document where I keep my Claire notes.

It’s frustratingly sparse. I know she likes a home improvement show and lives with Sydney, and a handful of other random tidbits about her work at the school.

Next, I open my emails but don’t turn on any music.

I’m sitting with my back to the wall, so the chance of someone coming along behind me and wondering why I’m staring at a blank screen is near impossible, but it’s good to be prepared.

Sipping my coffee, I listen to them brainstorm fundraising ideas for classroom supplies. They debate 5Ks and car washes, bake sales and GoFundMes. Responding to emails, I half listen until the conversation shifts from professional to personal.

They’re talking about summer plans. Math Teacher is visiting family in Massachusetts, and she asks Claire what she’s doing.

“Hoping to teach a class at NCC. Probably serving too.”

Summer: teaching + serving , I type into my document. NCC is Newbound Community College. I wish she’d say what restaurant she’s planning to work at.

“Are you at least taking a week or two off? It’s been one thing after another; some downtime wouldn’t kill you.” I think the voice belongs to the counselor, but I can’t look to be certain.

“It’ll be fine.” Claire doesn’t sound like she’s sure. “I’ll be more stressed if I go into the school year without having made a dent in my loans.”

Someone makes a sympathetic sound, and someone else makes a disgruntled noise.

“I wish you would have used my lawyer; there has to be something they can do,” Math Teacher says. “Reimbursement alimony or something.”

Claire sighs, the sound weary, like she’s had this conversation before. “It would have been a fight. We both brought our student loans into the marriage.”

“You helped pay his with the understanding that then you’d work on yours together,” Math Teacher keeps going. “With a good lawyer, you could have made him pay half. It isn’t fair.”

Claire says nothing.

“It would have dragged things out, though,” Counselor chimes in, her voice sympathetic. “Sometimes it’s worth the cost to be done with someone—for your peace of mind.”

“Exactly.” There’s a defeated note in Claire’s voice that makes me dislike Keith even more than I already do.

“He knows what the right thing to do is, and if he were the person I married, he would do it. But I spent the last year begging him to give a shit about me. I’m never asking him for anything ever again.

” She laughs, but it’s bitter and cold, out of place in the warmth and light of the coffee shop.

“So unless he pops up and offers me thirty grand out of the goodness of his heart, I’ll be working summers. I’m okay with that.”

Counselor lets out a low whistle. “Thirty?”

“Almost. Twenty-seven and change,” Claire responds. “If the 5K fundraiser works for the school, I’ll hold one for me. Make T-shirts that say Help, I’m Poor, and My Ex Is an Ass .”

The other women laugh, and the conversation moves back to fundraising.

This new information is all I can think about.

Before too long, the others are standing up and hugging goodbye.

I expect Claire to go with them, but she doesn’t.

She stays at the table, scrolling through her phone, for another ten minutes or so.

When she finally rises to leave, I debate whether I should say hello or not.

After sitting here this whole time, it feels a bit odd to greet her now.

Claire’s key ring, which is clipped to the zipper of her bag, snags the back of the chair. The zipper opens partway, an assortment of items avalanching to the ground.

“Shit,” she mutters.

I’m already up and moving, rounding the fig tree barrier. Kneeling to gather her things, I offer an “I’ll help” as I do just that.

Claire does a double take. “Shane?” Then she returns her focus to the pennies she’s picking up off the floor.

“I thought I saw you in line earlier, but I wasn’t sure.

” Sitting back on her heels, she gives me a sheepish grin as she takes pens, assorted hair ties, and a mini bottle of hand sanitizer from me.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in casual clothes. It’s a good look.”

The compliment throws me off, eliminating any chance of saying something witty. My brain is too busy trying to remember what I’m wearing and catalog it for the future—just in case.

Black jeans, flannel, jean jacket, boots.

Say something.

“Thanks.” Offer some sort of reciprocal compliment. “I like your bag.”

I wasn’t joking, but Claire laughs like I was. Removing her keys from the zipper, she zips her bag shut again.

“Thanks for this.” She gestures at the now-bare floor between us. “Hunting down runaway pens is less embarrassing with company.” Rising, she brushes her hands off on her leggings.

I follow suit, rubbing my hands on my jeans. “Happy to hunt with you anytime.”

Fuck.

Poor choice of words. Her gaze is curious, as if she’s trying to figure me out, but then she smiles, cheeks turning pink. “I’ll do my best not to fling anything else on the ground.”

Nodding at her quip, I try not to get lost in the crinkles at the corners of her eyes. I like them, and the way her smile doesn’t only move her mouth, but her whole face. “So, how have you been?”

She just got divorced, that’s how she’s been.

Get it together.

“I’ve been good, but I won’t be if I don’t hurry.

I’m supposed to help my roommate decorate for her niece’s birthday party.

She’s turning thirteen, so we’re going all out.

Streamers, fairy lights, oh gosh, we’re building this photo corner so she can take pictures with her friends—” Cutting herself off mid-ramble, she flushes deeper.

“Sorry, got a little carried away there.”

Her bashfulness eases my tension, makes me want to smile at her. “Don’t apologize. Thirteenth birthdays are serious business.”

“They really are.” She starts to say something else but stops when her phone chimes.

“Being summoned for decorating duty?”

Claire pulls her phone from her jacket pocket, checks the screen, and snorts.

“You tell me.” She holds the phone so I can see a photo of an enormous pile of what looks like junk.

There’s fabric, PVC pipe, the previously mentioned fairy lights, and a dozen other items. Below the picture is a single text reading, SOS .

I chuckle. “Looks like you better go, then. It was nice to see you.”

Major understatement.

“You too. Thank you again.” Another criminally endearing smile, and she’s off.

Across the coffee shop and out the door, leaving me trying—and failing—not to stare at her ass as she walks away.

Forcing myself out of my Claire’s-ass-in-leggings - induced trance, I start back to my table to gather my things.

There’s a glint of silver beside one of the planters.

It’s a lipstick, Claire’s, missed when we picked up her items. Pocketing the cosmetic, I return to my table and shove my laptop into its case.

Maybe I can catch her before she leaves.

The cold air stings my face as I hurry from the coffee shop. Claire’s truck is gone, her parking spot already occupied by a BMW.

Fuck.

Back in my SUV, I contemplate my conversation with Claire—and what I overheard before it.

Keith fucked her over financially, and she has debt.

The idea is so obvious I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before.

I hired professionals to explore this “kink awakening,” and while that was a lackluster experience, it would be different with Claire.

I know it. I could offer her enough money to pay off her student loans.

Or just ask her out.

The traditional route is tempting, but only for a second.

There are too many variables involved with dating.

Every romantic relationship I’ve been in has been brief, and I’m aware that shortcomings in my interpersonal skills contributed largely to their demise.

A business arrangement, however…Creating a contract with no room for confusion, all the rules stated in black and white is the perfect solution.

It won’t matter if I stay at the office till all hours, can’t think of something funny to say, or miss some subtle emotional cue, because it’s business. Zero emotions.

My phone vibrates in my jacket pocket, rattling against the lipstick.

Claire’s face flashes in my mind. Her smile.

The rambling. The way she made scooping change off the floor of a coffee shop enjoyable.

I pull my phone and the lipstick from my pocket.

The text is from my brother and can wait till I get home.

Dropping my phone into the cupholder, I examine the lipstick.

It’s well used, the outside of the tube battered, but the circle sticker with the shade name is still legible.

It’s called Wanderlust.