“I’m not done.” She lifts a flat palm in front of my face.
“Yeah, you are,” I say before she can continue. And then I do the most fucked up thing of all.
I kiss her.
I mean, technically I’m shutting her up—but with a kiss.
I silence her full mouth with mine, cupping her pretty little face in my palm, my fingers slipping through her silky blonde hair.
She moans for a second, a half-assed attempt to protest, and then she exhales through her nose, her breath warm and minty on my face as her lips part and she accepts my tongue.
I don’t know what the fuck is happening or what the fuck this is, but there’s something cathartic about it. Like a release I never knew I needed.
Moving my hands lower, I slip a finger under the hem of her shirt then beneath the waistband of her linen shorts, pulling her closer, until she’s completely pressed against me. My cock throbs, hardening on the other side of my jeans.
I'd take her right here, right now if I could.
A minute later, she pulls away, lips swollen and golden eyes wild. She tugs her shirt into place and tucks a strand of hair behind one ear. “This is probably a Monday for you.”
“Are you implying that I kiss all of my clients?” I ask.
“Essentially.”
I smirk. “Only the infuriatingly sexy ones.”
Her cheeks bloom with warmth, and she looks away. Makes me wonder if anyone’s ever called her “sexy” in her life. Not that she isn’t. I just bet people in her social circles aren’t the crass and blatant types.
Brighton lifts her fingers to her puffy pout. I’m two seconds from asking if she’s okay. I mean, it sure as hell seemed like she was enjoying herself a minute ago. And she kissed me back, her tongue grazing mine and her hands resting on my hips.
But the curtain moves.
We’re no longer alone. No longer isolated from the rest of the shop. Or from reality.
Missy stands there, snapping her gum, her dead stare alternating between the two of us. “Your next appointment’s here.”
“’Kay, thanks,” I say as Brighton clears her throat and squeezes past Missy. Five seconds later, she’s gone, the bells on the front door jangling as it shuts. I glance at the small waiting area and spot one of my longtime clients flipping through a magazine. “Bud, I’m ready for you.”
I motion for him to come on back, and he follows, making himself comfortable as I prep the station. We’re finishing up a piece on his left bicep today, a black and white likeness of the 13-year-old Rottweiler he had to put down earlier this year. There’s not much room to work with—he’s what we like to call a tattoo “collector” and he’s more ink than skin these days, but I’ve never turned down a challenge or a loyal client and I’m not about to start now.
“How goes it?” he asks.
“Same old.”
“Keeping busy?”
“Always,” I say.
That’s one of the things I like about Bud. He can carry on a conversation using a fourth as many words as everyone else. And what you see is what you get with him. He wears ripped Wranglers, twenty-year-old t-shirts with screen-printed logos that he probably got for free over the years, and he hasn’t cut his goatee in at least half a decade. Braids it and everything.
Bud is real.
Nothing like Brighton, who hides behind her Park Terrace facade and family name.
I prep my station, wash up, and slap on a pair of clean gloves as Bud leans back on the client bed—and it’s then that I realize Brighton left without me so much as glancing at her tattoo.
As soon as I finish up with this appointment, I’ll shoot her a text about rebooking. I’m sure the thing’s healing nicely and I’m sure she’d be fine if she never sets foot in here ever again …
… but I kind of want to see her again.
19
Brighton
I’m reeling.
Head to toe.
I never knew it was possible to feel … sparkly … but that’s the only way I can describe it. It’s like every part of me is alive, parts I never knew existed.
That kiss.
That kiss …
It was everything.
Unexpected. Exhilarating. Infuriating. Freeing. Terrifying. Enthralling. It brought everything to the surface at once. I don’t think it lasted more than a minute, but I felt more in that one minute than I’ve ever felt in my entire life combined.
I drove home on a cloud, walked into my house practically dancing on air.
I’m quite certain Madden felt nothing. I’m sure he does that sort of thing all the time, despite the fact that he denied it. I bet women throw themselves at him all the time. With those steady hands, full lips, and that devil-may-care attitude, he’s all but impossible not to want.
Lying on my bed, I stare at the ceiling before closing my eyes and replaying that moment for the thousandth time.
His mouth crushing mine.
His hand on my cheek, fingers in my hair.
The hardness beneath his jeans when he pressed my body against his.
It was like the slow click a rollercoaster makes as it climbs a steep hill … you know what’s coming next and you have no choice but to embrace it and let it happen. And let’s face it, you knew what you were getting into when you boarded the ride in the first place.
My heart beat so wildly I thought I was going to pass out—then I remembered that all that separated us from a half dozen other people was a thin white curtain.
So I pulled away first.
I spoke first, wanting to show him that the kiss meant just as little to me as it did to him because I was certain he’d expect the opposite.
And then his receptionist walked in and the moment was gone.
Just like that.
I left in a hurry. There was nothing more to say. But what I wouldn’t give to have just one more moment like that with him, longer and uninterrupted.
He’s with a client now. Or at least he was when I left. But still, I wonder if he’s still thinking about the kiss, wishing we would’ve had just another minute or two or three …
My phone buzzes on my nightstand, and I roll over to retrieve it, practically choking on my spit when I see it’s a text from him.
MADDEN: I never looked at your tattoo when you were here.
I bite the grin that threatens my mouth and quell the urge to type back something smart.
ME: Should I come back another time?
Three dots fill the screen before disappearing. A full minute passes before he replies.
MADDEN: I’ll leave that up to you.
ME: You’re the expert. You tell me if I need to be seen again.
MADDEN: It is proper procedure. Got to make sure it’s healing properly. I can squeeze you in at nine tonight.
I’m sure my mother’s going to throw a million questions my way if she sees me leaving the house at nine o’clock on a Monday, but if it means getting one more kiss, then so be it. I’ve got hours to come up with an excuse anyway.
“Brighton?” Speaking of my mother …
I sit up on my bed, placing my phone face down beside me. “Yes?”
She stands in my doorway. I didn’t even hear her come in. “I’m going into the city for some shopping. Thought I’d get a head start on finding something to wear for Eben’s wedding. Going to meet your father for dinner at Cristiani’s afterwards. Would love it if you’d join me.”
“Isn’t it kind of early to be shopping for a dress for their wedding?” I ask.
She swats a limp hand. “Nonsense. It’s never too early. And if God forbid, I buy something off the rack, I’ll need to make sure the tailor has plenty of time to get it perfect.”
She chuckles, but I know she’s serious.
“I think I’m going to pass. Thank you though,” I say.
Her smile evaporates, and her jaw pulses before she clears her throat. “Brighton ...”
“Yes?”
My mother enters my room, taking a seat beside me on the bed. “Is everything all right?”
“Of course. Why wouldn’t it be?”
“You just seem a little … unlike yourself lately.” She folds her hands in her lap and then twists her five-carat diamond ring. “Maybe I’m imagining it, but it just seems like you’re a bit … avoidant.”
“Avoidant? How?”
“To be perfectly honest, Brighton, getting you to go anywhere with me lately is like pulling teeth,” she says. “And you never used to be this way. You’ve always been my partner in crime, my little shadow. Makes it difficult for me not to take this personally.”
“Mom ...” I exhale, sitting up. “It’s nothing personal. I’ve just been staying busy. And I’ve got a lot on my mind lately.”
“A lot on your mind? Do we need to get you in with Dr. Greenberg again?” Her palm splays across her chest.
I haven’t seen Dr. Greenberg in years, and I’d be perfectly fine never seeing her again. That chapter in my life—after my grandparents were brutally murdered while I was asleep in the attic bedroom—is one that I’d prefer not to be reminded of.
“If you’re feeling overwhelmed, Brighton, perhaps you should scale back on some of your extracurriculars,” she says. I know exactly what she's referring to.
“I couldn’t do that to Devanie.”