Braden
I managed to put off car shopping for two weeks, but that was as long as Emily would let me get away with before she was practically dragging me by the ear down to Aurora Ave Auto Row.
“What about this one?” she asked, smoothing her hand over the hood of a black BMW X1. “It’s nice but understated. Not too flashy. Not like buying a sports car or something, but also brings a little luxury.”
She shimmied her shoulders when she said luxury, her lips curling up as she turned her gaze on me.
My chest had a very unwelcome reaction to that attention.
I’d decided no matter how hard I tried, it was no use trying to restrain my attraction toward this woman. She was just so fucking beautiful, so smart, so witty and goddamnit — funny. She was so funny. Even when she wasn’t trying, she made me want to laugh when I’d spent most of my life feeling guilty for even considering it.
Today, she was dressed in cut-off jean shorts that hugged her toned thighs and gapped at the back part of her waistline, dueto her magnificent ass filling out the denim so perfectly. Her lean stomach was on display under her crop t-shirt, which had a picture of corn husks on it and readcrop top.I’d laughed to myself when I’d first seen her in it. I was decidedly laughing less since I realized she wasn’t wearing a bra beneath it, and every time she lifted her arms I caught a glimpse of the sweet swells of her breasts.
Fucking hell, this woman was wrecking me and all my self-control.
“What do you think?” she asked, popping her sunglasses up long enough to squint up at me and make eye contact. She’d changed her hair since I’d last seen her. It was piled high in a half-up ponytail, two strands of bangs framing her face, the rest of it spilling down her back in big, glossy curls that bounced every time she moved. Honey-blonde highlights threaded through the dark waves, catching the sun with every tilt of her head. Her makeup was just as lethal — sharp brows, thick lashes that framed her dark eyes lined in smoky shadow, and lips coated in a glassy nude gloss that made it impossible not to stare.
“I think it’s twenty grand over my budget.”
“It’s a Beamer! It’s worth the extra cost.”
“No,” I said simply, and then I began walking the rest of the used cars. We’d already been to one dealership that was a bust. I was hoping this one had more promise. From their online catalog, it seemed they did — but you never knew how frequently those things were updated or how accurate they were. Salesmen were too busy making sales to worry about updating listings.
Emily pouted before popping her sunglasses back into place and jogging to catch up to me. “Fine. Show me one you think is better.”
“This one isn’t bad,” I said, pausing at a Hyundai Tucson.
Emily wrinkled her nose. “This does not scream hot NFL player looking to shag.”
“Who said I’m looking to shag?”
She pursed her lips and slid her sunglasses down her nose to glare at me.
“And who evensaysshag? What are you, British?”
“Oh, I’ve got some British in me. Or should I say, I’vehadsome British in me.”
She smirked with the tease, popping a bubble with the gum she was chewing, and though it was meant to be a joke, my stomach soured and my jaw tensed. I didn’t want to think about another man being inside her. I didn’t want to think about anyone else touching her, period.
Which makes no sense, you idiot, because she isn’t yours and never will be.
“Come on,” Emily said, slipping her arm through mine and tugging me down the line. “We can do better.”
We passed a few cars that neither of us stopped to investigate, the price tag being too high, or the style not matching what I was looking for. As we walked, the sun beamed down on us pleasantly, a beautiful spring day in Seattle. Summer would swing in soon, but that didn’t mean we wouldn’t have plenty of cold days ahead.
That was what I loved most about Seattle. Even in July, you could have mornings in the fifties, the sky a soft gray blanket overhead. Some people complained about the chill or the clouds, but I’d always liked it. It reminded me of Boston — of brisk mornings walking to school, of pulling a hoodie over my head and shoving my hands in the pocket, of a time when life had almost felt simple. Or at least simpler. Seattle had that same kind of quiet comfort to it, like the world was inviting me to slow down, to curl up somewhere warm and stay there a while.
It was also the best weather for football.
“I like your tattoos, by the way,” I mused as we walked. I tapped the vine and flowers snaking over her forearm and down her wrist. “Do they all have a story?”
“A story? Sure,” she said. “I got that one in Las Vegas after I won four-hundred dollars on a slot machine. This one,” she said next, pointing to the butterfly over her navel. “I got from a guy with a teardrop tattoo who was friends with my roommate at the time and just happened to have a tattoo gun with him. He was taking his apprenticeship. I told him he could practice on me.”
My brows shot up.
“And this one,” she said, tapping the larger piece on her thigh — a lioness with roses and thorns surrounding it. “I got this from an artist who tooksix monthsto book in Austin. Her books would fill up the second she posted them, and I finally managed to get an appointment. It was the last tattoo I got before I moved. So yeah, lots of stories. Do they havemeaning, though?” She shrugged. “Not really. I just get what I feel like, whatever moves me at the moment.”
“Every piece is so unique,” I said, taking the excuse to survey her body and the ink stretching over it. “It feels thought out.”
