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It’s not altruistic.
I love the way she hums along with the music, tapping her toes, smiling as she swoons over some damaged lyricist.
Hell, it’s not just her reaction.
I love her miserable taste.
It’s comforting. Somebody else out there is as fucked-up as I am.
Thousands of screaming women adore this singer for all the pain in his breathy, raspy voice.
They love that he’s hurt.
They want to save him.
I guess I’m still a romantic at heart.
Deep down, I still believe in all that shit. Even if my head knows better.
The album shifts to the next as my appointment ends. I walk my client out, schedule our next session.
Leighton is still sitting behind the counter. She’s staring at something on her laptop, humming the melody of the angsty anthem flowing through the shop.
We have an understanding. As long as she does everything she needs to do for Inked Hearts, she’s free to use her time to work on whatever.
Like homework for her summer school class.
Her eyes flit from her computer. “Unless you’re abou
t to show off my first-class ticket to Hawaii, save it. This is due at midnight.”
“The design?”
She nods. “Design 201.” Her eyes fix on the screen. She adjusts something with her mouse. “I don’t see tickets.”
“Leigh—”
“It won’t be weird. But suit yourself.” Her brow furrows as she leans back. Takes in the design again. She bites her lip.
I know that look.
It’s almost there.
But something is off.
“Let me see,” I say.
“It’s not done.”
“That’s why I can help.”
Her eyes meet mine. She stares at me, assessing my intentions.
I don’t get it. I don’t fuck with her the way Dean does. I don’t play everything cool the way Walker does. I… all right, according to Leighton, I “brood all over the place,” even more than Brendon does.
But I don’t do it at her.
I’m always clear about what I want.
