Kaylee’s door is open.
And she’s there, sitting up on her bed, in a thin cream tank top and deep blue boxer shorts with white bicycles on them.
I press the door shut behind me.
I let my eyes roam her body. Her strap is falling off her shoulder. Her top is clinging to her tits. Her nipples are hard.
She presses her knees together. Plants her palms on her soft thighs. Her nails—painted Bruins blue—dig into her skin.
She looks up at me. “I haven’t seen much of you.”
“We’re busy with contracts. And clients. We need to hire help.”
She nods. “What kind of help do you need?”
“Another artist.”
“Not my expertise.”
“If Leighton decides to apprentice, we’ll need someone to take her job.”
“You want me working the front desk?”
“Why not? You’re there all the time now.” Not lately. She’s avoiding me as much as I’m avoiding her.
“Because—” She draws a circle around herself with her hand. Turns to show off her bare shoulders, one at a time. “I’m unadorned.”
“Guys would fall over themselves trying to convince you to ink up. They’d get their work done at the shop so they could flirt with you.” Which is a good reason to discourage her. I want to deck Dean whenever he flirts with Kaylee and I know he’s only doing it to fuck with me. If it were some other guy, one who wouldn’t think twice about treating her like a cum-dumpster? Fuck, I’d break my hand within a month.
“What if I said yes?”
“As long as I do the work.”
“Yeah?” She scoots back on her bed and lowers herself onto her back. “You trust yourself?”
Trust myself with my hands on her skin? Fuck no. But— “More than I trust anyone else.”
She turns toward me and props up on one elbow. “Maybe I can help convince Ryan. If there are numbers supporting it. Math isn’t my best subject—”
“You got an A minus in Calculus.”
“See. Not my best.”
I arch a brow.
She laughs. “That was my worst grade.”
“Of course it was.”
“Hey, I didn’t tell you to spend your high school career hanging out with druggies and burn outs.”
“You sure? I thought that was you.”
This laugh is bigger. It gets her light hair falling in her face. Her strap sliding off her shoulder. “Are you gonna stay awhile?”
“Yeah.”
“Good.” She grabs her glasses from the bedside table and slides them on.
I take a seat on the bed next to her. “I have something for you. Close your eyes.”
“Okay.” Her lids flutter together. She turns toward me. Every part of her body is expectant. Her back is arched. Her lips are pursed. Her thighs are pressed together.
She wants me to kiss her.
Touch her.
Fuck her.
I want that too.
Fuck, how I want that…
Snap out of it.
I shake my head as I place the notebook in Kaylee’s hands. “You can open your eyes.”
She does. Her gaze goes right to the leather-bound journal in her hands. “Brendon. This was too expensive.”
“My money.”
“But, you—isn’t this everything you hate? Some mass-produced notebook that costs way too much.”
“I’m not that guy anymore.” I’m not sure who I am now. Not beyond work and family. Usually, that’s enough. But the way Kaylee looks at me—it begs me to fill in all the gaps.
I want to be the kind of guy who deserves her.
“It’s so pretty.” She traces a heart on the cover. “I’m not sure I can actually write in it.” She places the journal on her bedside table and turns toward me. “Thank you.”
“Of course.”
She scoots forward. Wraps her arms around me. Buries her head in my chest. “Really, Brendon. Thank you.”
Fuck, she smells good. Her touch is soft. Sweet. Like she believes I deserve her. “I brought you something else.”
“Where?”
“Here.” I pull the folded paper from my back pocket. “Our deal.”
“Oh.” Her cheeks flush as she unfolds the paper. She takes it in slowly.
It’s an old piece. A self-portrait. It was right after the accident. When I carried around the weight of it on my shoulders twenty-four seven.
It’s a lighter burden now, but it’s still there.
My parents died thinking I was worthless.
My last words to them were about how awful they were.
“When did you do this?” She runs her fingers over the faded paper.
“Forever ago.”
She nods as she looks up at me. “It’s beautiful. But sad.”
I’m not sure what to say. I don’t share my work with people. Tattoos are someone else’s blood and guts. I can show the entire world that.
“There’s a lot of hurt there,” she whispers. “Do you still feel like that?”
“Less, but yeah.”
“I’m sorry. It must have been hard, everything with your parents. And taking care of Em.”
“Taking care of Em was the only thing that kept me going.”
She turns over so she’s on her side. “You’re sweet.”
I shake my head.
She nods. “You hide it well, but you are.”
Her words twist something in my gut. She sees too much of me. More than I can handle. “You can’t talk your way out of this.”