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The faux apartment suits her.
There’s a tiny silver and white kitchen against the “wall.” A white cloth futon next to the bookshelf. A TV nestled into a tiny stand—one adorned with vases flush with silk flowers.
Kaylee plops onto the couch. Smooths her floral print dress. Takes my hand and looks up at me with those doe eyes.
It’s like she’s screaming please.
Fuck, the thoughts going through my head…
We’re not here as foreplay.
We’re not here so I can order her to strip for my viewing pleasure.
We’re here because everything in her life is changing.
I’m here to be her friend.
Not to think about her hands on my zipper and her lips around my cock.
I need to get a hold of myself.
Her fingers skim my outer thigh. “The embarrassing thing… I’ll tell you if you agree to help me with it.”
She’s sitting there waiting. Exactly where I want her.
I channel every other thought I can. Baseball. Dodgers blue. Dad whining about trades and salary caps. Explaining that if I want to waste my time playing video games, I should play one that actually teaches me something. Like his baseball management simulator.
My cock cools it.
I manage to sit next to Kaylee. “I’m not agreeing until I have more information.”
Her chest spills over her dress as she leans closer. The top of her bra peeks out from the neckline. It’s beige. Nearly the color of her skin.
I force myself to stare into her eyes. “That’s your invitation to offer more.”
“Would you rather own the shop outright or share that with Dean, Walker, and Ryan?”
“Don’t worry about it, Kay.”
“I’m not worried.”
I’ve been thinking about that too. I’m a control freak. There’s no denying that. But there’s another part of me. One that wants teammates. That wants to let people in.
That wants someone to lean on.
“You need help with something. It’s not my finances,” I say.
She shakes her head. “I have this idea. We could take thirty minutes, try to find the best collection of stuff to decorate Inked Hearts properly.”
“And your room?”
“That after.”
“You gonna tell me?”
“If you agree to help.”
I shake my head.
“Then let’s go.” She pushes herself to her feet. Offers her hand to shake. “Thirty minutes. We’ll meet downstairs. See who gets the best stuff.”
Fuck, the brightness in her eyes.
There’s no way I can deny that.
This is a good idea.
Something fun.
To fill both our heads.
I nod. “You’re on.”
We shake. Set our timers. Go for it.
I give her a head start.
All right, I watch the way her dress falls over her ass as she walks away.
Same difference.
Thirty minutes later, I’m downstairs with a cart full of cheap decorations. White Christmas lights. Simple black frames. Rectangular black pillows. Planters full of cacti.
Eighteen-year-old Brendon would fucking kill me.
I’m yuppie scum.
And there’s Kaylee with a full cart. Pink string lights. Heart pillows. Same planters full of cacti. One of those mass-produced paintings of the ocean.
She holds it up. “I just wanted to see your face.”
“And?”
“Perfection.” She sets it aside. “The corporations have us, huh?”
“Pretty sure I’m doomed.”
“If you buy stuff at Ikea to decorate your small business, is that corporate or not?”
“Don’t look at me. I didn’t go to college.”
“Me either. Not yet.”
I never thought about those kinds of technicalities. I was an angry kid without responsibilities. One who’d never ever wanted for anything. Who’d never worried about anything.
Easy to decry three-dollar meatballs and cheap decorations when you have the time and money to make your own dinner, sew together your own jeans.
You get older. Start making compromises. Realize some of your ideals were naïve.
But owning my own business—even one adorned in Ikea decorations—that warms me like nothing else does.
She smiles. “You’re going to do it.”
“I was always going to do it.”
“No… you weren’t. I know you. I know every single one of your facial expressions.”
“I have expressions?”
“Barely. But you do.”
“You have a room to furnish.”
“You saying you can’t handle it?”
“You baiting me?”
She shakes her head.
But she is.
She has no idea how much she’s baiting me.
We pick out a bed, a bookshelf, a chair, a handful of decorations. It’s not a lot. Just enough for the room to scream Kaylee. Just enough for the room to feel like home.
Her eyes go to the sign next to the elevator. The ones that label the cafe on the third floor. “I guess I can give the three-dollar meatballs a chance.”
“Generous.”
“I think so too.”
The elevator dings as its doors slide open. I motion after you.
She steps inside and presses her back against the metal wall.
I pull out my phone. Check my texts from Ryan. Manning has been an absent owner for years. Ryan and I more or less manage the place.
We try to check with each other about any changes—schedules, pricing, difficult clients, even what brand of coffee we keep on hand—but it’s a formality.
Neither of us listens.
Brendon: I want to do it. Me and you. Or the four of us.
