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I grab my sketchbook, take a seat behind the counter, work on a mock-up—a colorful ocean inspired sleeve. I’m halfway through a rough sketch when the bell rings.
Dean steps inside. Stretches his arms over his head.
He surveys the room—it’s just Brendon finishing a shoulder tattoo—then turns to me. “How was it?”
“How was what?”
He motions to the counter.
Oh. How was fucking Leighton on the counter? Amazing. But it’s not exactly front of mind. “None of your business.”
“You’re moody for someone who got laid as much as you did in the last two days.”
“I’m always moody.”
He makes that kinda noise. Moves to the Keurig in the corner and starts fixing a cup.
“You don’t drink coffee.”
“I’m aware of that.”
“What are you doing?”
“Something nice for my brother. That okay with you?”
I run my hand through my hair. What the hell is up with him? “Yeah. Sure. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
The smell of coffee and the drip drip drip of the machine fill the room.
I turn my attention back to my sketchbook. Draw an octopus breaking a ship with its legs.
Dean’s footsteps move closer.
He sets the coffee on the desk. Stares at my drawing. Chuckles. “Freudian.”
“Is it?”
“Worried you’re gonna break between someone’s legs?”
Fuck, when did he get so perceptive? “You that desperate for details on me and Leighton?”
“Fuck yeah. But that’s not what I’m getting at.”
“What are you getting at?”
“Why aren’t you reveling in afterglow?”
“Been at work all morning.”
“Still.” He studies my expression. “What happened?”
“Nothing.”
He shakes his head. “Something.”
“Why do you think I’m gonna tell you?”
