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I move toward the hall. Watch Emma's doorframe. Nothing for a while. Then the light flickers over it.
It's coming from Kaylee's room.
I should ignore it.
Continue avoiding her.
Do whatever it takes to keep my fly zipped.
I don't.
I pull on boxers and jeans. Move into the hallway with soft steps.
She stirs. Her footsteps move toward the door.
"Hey," she whispers through the door. "You okay?"
No. I'm not going to be okay until she's out of my head. Until my fucking head goes back to normal—so it's filled with details of action movies, and punk songs, and tattoo mockups, and one-night stands, and every awful thing my parents ever said to me.
Until that space is mine and not hers.
"Brendon?"
"I got something for you. Give me a minute." Fuck, there's something wrong with me. Too much. I know better than to invite myself into her room in the middle of the night.
This is not how you resist temptation.
Kaylee looking up at me with those doe eyes, her hands on my skin, her body curled into mine—I can barely resist that when we're vertical.
If we're horizontal?
Fuck this. I shake my head. Skip right over thoughts of baseball and action movies, straight to shop finances.
We're signing the papers tomorrow. Making it official.
But there's more to take care of. We need to hire an extra hand. Or two. And Ryan is refusing to even consider it.
The man hates change.
I grab Kaylee's gift and pull on a t-shirt. Force my thoughts to the shop. To salaries and profits and per hour rates. To schedules and how much more we could make if we plugged a few gaps.
Fuck, I should have paid more attention in high school. Taken some business classes at SMC. Something. I was too busy proving I didn't give a fuck about anything to care about the things that mattered.
I move into the hallway.
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."
