Stalker vs. Stalker Read Online Katie Charm

Categories Genre: Romance Tags Authors:

Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 66392 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 332(@200wpm)___ 266(@250wpm)___ 221(@300wpm)

Samuel Hawkes loves that I hate his pretty face. Exchanging scowls with your exact opposite is self-care.
But when we make our office feud an everywhere feud… The word “obsessed” gets harder to dismiss.
Suddenly, the look in his eyes is less “You’re a dork, Ellie,” and more “I want to break you.”
And I’m afraid to find out what that means. (Hopefully closer to ice-pop-split-in-half than egg-thrown-against-a-wall. He’ll make fun of me if I ask.)

Before anyone says “he’s trash, ignore him,” let me first agree with you and second, explain.
Watching Samuel Hawkes is not my hobby. It’s secretly my job. I work undercover in this office, as a sleuth.
The guy’s suspected of stealing millions of dollars or something—I don’t know, it doesn’t matter, because the only crime he’s committed under my watch is tormenting me. He thinks I’m monitoring him for fun, so he pays me just as much attention. Maybe even more.

He remembers everything about me. He wins every scuffle.
Most annoyingly perfect jawline. Broadest shoulders. Fanciest car. Best smile-wink combo without accidentally catching our boss, Mr. Paterson, in the crossfire. (I don’t want to talk about it.)
If I can withstand this himbo hurricane of a man and investigate my way into his closet full of skeletons, there’s a much-needed cash reward coming my way.
But as he watches me watch him, and we both get closer to the enemy than we’d ever intended (he smells like a pine tree), the mysterious Mr. Hawkes is catching up to my lead in the one competition I was definitely winning.
Is his pretend-stalking… kinda real? And worst of all… Am I into it? Sorry, mom. Sorry, therapist.
I’ll un-think that thought, live a well-adjusted life, and collect my paycheck before my carefully guarded walls and all these secrets come crumbling down on me.
…But am I into it?







Labor Day Monday


It’s 11:11 am, and just about the time Samuel Hawkes likes to stop by the water cooler for a scowl in my direction, but I’m reluctantly noticing that A) he’s late, and B) the building is collapsing.

With me in it.

And presumably Samuel, too.

But most tragically of all: me, because I already hate Mondays.

One minute ago, life was so simple. I was staring at a proposed 6% enlargement of the logo on our soda cans, Brand Bible swirling around my head, while distractedly contemplating the important one-on-one meeting I’d just had with Samuel in Conference Room B. It was deeply, deeply important—so important that we held our impromptu meeting on Labor Day, with no one else in the office. In fact, it was so deeply (deeply) important that it took a literal earthquake to shake it from my thoughts.

When the building started swaying back and forth, that too was a great aid in clearing my mind.

“Sam! Sam?!”

Where is that big idiot, why can’t I see him towering over the desks like usual, and how have I had the misfortune of worrying about the world’s worst guy in the middle of a life or death scenario?

Heels in hand, I hurry through a tiny labyrinth of shaking workspaces, calling out for my least favorite coworker. Outside the window, the neighboring skyscrapers are also swaying, rocked by the trembling ground. It’s an unnerving sight until I remind myself that they’re supposed to withstand earthquakes by doing just that—as our PR team would remind me: it’s a feature, not a flaw. Unfortunately, this building was erected about a hundred years ago, which might as well be the middle fucking ages when an earthquake hits and you’re ten floors up.

“Sam! This place might not hold! We need to take the stairs!”

Oh, I can picture him now, giggling in the supply closet while I run around clucking about saving his life. That would be a real win for you, Samuel. Or maybe you’ve opted to leave without me. Maybe you’re sitting outside with the security guard, the only other person who came to work today, forgetting about me entirely while you make a cool little video on your phone of a swaying building. Maybe you’ll go viral and get lots of comments, like:

“What’s that faint, high-pitched squealing sound?”

“Is that an innocent female victim, screaming from a distant height?”

“It sounds like she’s calling out selflessly for a man who doesn’t deserve it.”

You’d better be dead somewhere, Samuel Hawkes, because if you’re not headed for the grave, you’re headed for the doghouse.

Accounting, marketing, HR—I’m running past them all, hoping my eyes have failed to notice that somewhere right in front of me stands a 6’4, broad shouldered, dark-haired man with forest green eyes who could be Tom Hardy’s stunt double if he weren’t so busy pissing me off. Instead, I see wooden desks screeching against the floor, sliding slowly back and forth. Pens and picture frames are dropping all around. The emergency staircase is just up ahead, and I’m losing hope that he’s blending in.