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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.
Like I'm betraying Kay.
But I'm not.
We can't be anything.
Ever.
I'm a million years older than her.
I'm her guardian.
Her caretaker.
And, fuck, as much as I'd like to say Mom was wrong, she wasn't. I'm not the kind of guy who brings home the sweet, smart girl. Not unless she's trying to piss off Daddy.
There's no way I'm avoiding Kaylee now.
Which means I need to figure something else out. Some way to resist her that doesn't involve locking myself in my room when she's around.
I stare out the window, watching the waves crash into the sand. Same dark sky. Same silver moon. It's comforting, but it doesn't offer any clarity.
I want Kaylee.
I can't have her.
Sheer willpower is still my only technique for resisting her.
Part of me hopes she hates me for this move thing.
It will be easier to stay away if she isn't looking up at me with those sweet green eyes.
Giggling as she rests her head on my shoulder. How can you like action movies when you hate "sell out music"? Is anything more by the numbers than yet another Die Hard sequel?
Better to get this over with.
I pull out my cell and I text Kaylee.
Brendon: You okay?
Kaylee: About what you'd expect.
Brendon: I'm getting a key made for you. I'll leave it at the front desk. You can pick it up whenever.
Kaylee: Thanks. I'll stop by before work.
Brendon: You want to talk about it?
Kaylee: What's there to say? My parents are moving across the country and they aren't asking my opinion about it. I hated it when I was ten, and I hate it now. At least then they invited me to join.
Brendon: Would you move with them if they'd asked?
Kaylee: I don't see how it matters.
Brendon: Your grandma okay?
Kaylee: No. But I'm not in the loop with the details. I have no idea if she has a few weeks left or a few years.
Brendon: I'm sorry she's sick.
Kaylee: Thanks. This isn't on you. You made a generous offer. I do get that. And I appreciate it. Really, Brendon. I do.
Brendon: It's nothing.
Kaylee: It's a lot. I just...
Brendon: Wanted to be consulted?
Kaylee: Want things to be different. But that too. I'm tired. I'm going to go to bed. I'll see you tomorrow.
Brendon: Sweet dreams, Kay.
Kaylee: You too.
Chapter 5
Brendon
The bell rings as Kaylee steps inside the shop.
She's in her work outfit—dark jeans, a black b
utton up shirt, black non-skid shoes.
She hugs her pink purse to her shoulder as her eyes flit around the room.
Ryan nods hello. Runs a hand through his shaggy brown hair.
She nods back. Smiles a polite I'm trying to act like everything is great smile.
The client sitting in his chair isn't at all shy about giving Kaylee a long once over. His eyes are practically bugging out of his head.
My hand curls into a fist. It's a reflex.
Nobody like him is getting anywhere near her.
"Hey Kaylee," Ryan calls. "How are you?"
"Good. Thanks." She presses her lips together. "I'll just be a minute."
He nods.
She crosses the room to my spot at the front desk.
Leighton is running late. My next appointment is in thirty minutes. So I'm working on a mock up here instead of in my chair.
