My stomach drops.
Em is pissed.
She’s right to be pissed.
And the only thing I can do is insist I’m the adult here.
That’s being a parent. I knew what I was signing up for when I lobbied to be her legal guardian.
But that doesn’t mean I like it.
Kaylee living here is what makes sense. She’s a bright girl with a great future ahead of her. She should be in school. Even if it kills her not being with her family.
“Brendon!” Emma bangs on the door. “I’ll give you twenty seconds to explain before I… I don’t know. Do something to hurt you back.”
“The door is open.”
“I know. But—”
We have a strict ask permission before you enter policy. It saves both of us from a lot of awkwardness.
I close my sketchbook. “Come in.”
She does. She’s fuming. Her face is red. Her eyes are blotchy. Her hands are fists. “Well?”
“Her parents are moving back to Jersey.”
Emma raises a brow. And?
“They think she should stay here. Start school right away.”
“And you agree with them?”
“Think about it, Em.” It’s not like I want Kaylee here. I don’t trust myself enough to have her in the next room.
It used to be Kaylee was just Emma’s friend. She was a girl who was always good for a late-night conversation about books and movies.
But one day, something snapped. She wasn’t Emma’s friend. She wasn’t a girl at all.
She was a woman.
She was still adorable.
But in a fucking intoxicating way.
I’ve been thinking about her for months.
It’s torture every time she spends the night. Every time I see her on the couch in those tiny shorts she sleeps in, hugging her knees to her chest as she loses herself in a book.
It’s torture not touching her.
And it’s only going to get harder.
I’m a sick fuck, lusting after the girl I’m supposed to protect.
The girl younger than my kid sister.
But that knowledge hasn’t done shit to slow my heart rate when Kay’s around.
“Okay. Maybe Kay is better off starting UCLA rather than moving back to New Jersey right away. But you conspired with her parents.” Emma folds her arms. “Did you even ask her what she thought?”
I know what Kaylee thinks. If I close my eyes, I can see her miserable and lonely, hiding behind her Kindle the way she always does, pretending like nothing could ever upset her the way she always does.
“I’m your legal guardian.” Even if that doesn’t matter now that Emma is eighteen. “This is a parent decision.”
Emma scowls. “That’s a no.”
“It’s the best option, Em.”
“Maybe. But you should have asked her. And me.”
“You don’t want her here?”
“That’s not the point.” She turns and spins on her heel. “You should have asked me. Period.” She stops at the doorframe. “When is this happening?”
“As soon as possible. Her parents are moving out end of the month.”
“You should turn this back into a spare room.” Emma nods to my office. “Right away.”
“I will.”
“And get her an actual copy of the key.” Emma’s voice softens. “And everything she needs. If you’re going to ruin her life, you could at least make her comfortable.”
“You think I was gonna leave her on the floor?”
“I didn’t think you’d conspire with her parents. How should I know what you’d do?”
“Come by the shop tomorrow. I’ll have her key.”
“I’ll tell her.”
“I will.”
Emma scoffs. “She’s not gonna want to talk to you.”
“We’ll see.”
“Yeah. We will.” She slams the door on her way out.
The office is a sparse room—a desk, a bookshelf, a few framed prints on the wall. Kay can make use of most of this. But the decor isn’t right. It’s bold, angry, loud.
She’s soft. Quiet. Subtle.
She needs Monet not Lichtenstein.
I did pay attention during one class. The one class I wasn’t supposed to take.
Successful guys don’t know shit about art.
And certainly not about tattoos.
I move everything but the desk into my room.
There. The black workstation is too dark for Kaylee, but there’s no way it’s staying black for long. Within a week it will be covered in some mix of lyrics scribbled in silver Sharpie, magazine tear outs, and band stickers.
We argue all the time about the merits of pop-rock and pop-punk vs. punk. Sometimes, I admit I actually enjoy Blink 182. Other times, I tease her about her habit of falling for the broken bad boy. Then I turn over the words in my head, obsessing over the way her green eyes light up every time she sees me without a shirt.
Which is a lot more often than it should be.
Fuck, I’m already thinking about Kay. About the way she takes slow, careful steps when she’s modeling a new outfit for Em. About the way she sings along with Emma’s favorite Disney movies—with every ounce of emotion in the world. About the way those blue glasses frame her eyes.
I plant on the sprawling four poster bed in my room. I’ve given this thing a workout over the years. But not lately. Lately, every time a woman so much as touches my arm, I feel sick.