Sam followed the Athlete and the Artist for the rest of the afternoon, into the early evening.
He couldn’t let it go.
Even though he knew he should have.
Even when he risked being seen.
Which he wasn’t, because he was careful and well practised, and because he maintained his distances, monitored his angles, watched for reflections in windows and mirrors and the glass of passing vehicles.
He didn’t move too quickly or too slowly.
He blended in.
But seeing them together, watching how comfortable they were in each other’s company, how they talked and laughed and confided in each other, how delighted the Artist was to have company, watching them connect, then later stroll into a pub . . .
It savaged him.
More than he’d been prepared for.
More than he could take.
Because he’d lured her to him, for him, not for the Athlete or anyone else.
Plus it was happening too fast.
It shouldn’t be happening this fast.
His whole intention had been to take it slow and careful, build her trust, her reliance on him, not to see her get swept away by some facile trust fund prince.
And then later, inside the pub, when he’d watched from a distant booth and seen the Athlete take her flyer out of his pocket to talk about it again, when she’d used her phone to scroll through some images demonstrating her work, the two of them crouching together over the table to study the screen, their faces almost touching, eyes locking, he began to feel the fear.
That maybe it was too late.
Maybe he’d lost her to him.
Which was clearly unacceptable.
And was why, when they left the pub together a short while later, a little drunk, a little tipsy, he followed them again.