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“No,” I say, my tone way too serious. “I love that you and Mom are always pushing me, always want me to find a passion, pursue it, and do well.”
Dad kneels, placing his hand on my shoulder. “Is everything okay, kiddo?”
Kiddo.
It reminds me of what Brian said, the words I’d feared since my crush began.
He called me a kid.
“I’m fine. I’ll rearrange the tattoo.”
Dad nods, then stands, leaving me. “Dinner in ten.”
I stare at my phone, where I’ve saved Brian’s number.
My pounding heartbeat tries to stop me from pressing call, but I ignore that, pushing through the anxiety.
“Hello?” he says after a few rings.
“It’s me, Evie.”
“I recognize your voice,” he says.
“I just wanted you to know Dad asked about the tattoo. I didn’t know what else to say, so I told him I panicked and couldn’t do it just in case he asks.”
“Okay.”
I clench my fist around the phone, feeling like I might yell.
“I also told him I’d rearrange, but we can think of a good reason why we can’t. Maybe you’ve decided you want somebody more experienced in your new business.”
“Maybe I like the fact you’re inexperienced,” he says, with a suggestive huskiness in his tone.
I imagine him sitting in bed, shirtless, his muscles swelling and making his body seem even more powerful. My body screams at me to find him, physically, to repeat what we did earlier today. It feels like so much more time has passed with the realization of my crush and my dream far too short.
“Why would you want an inexperienced employee?” I ask. “Maybe so you can train them yourself?”
I wonder if he’ll get the game I’m playing—talking about employer-employee, hinting at tats, but really talking about us.
He laughs gruffly. “Oh, I’d train you, Evie. By the time I finished with your inexperienced ass, you’d know how to make your employer happy. The truth is, you don’t need training. Just being you is enough.”
“Are we still talking about work?” I murmur.
I’m ruining the game, but there’s an edge to the fun, a sharpness I can’t tolerate. I’ve spent so long living in the land of not knowing, the crush-fueled gaze of my adolescence, that it’s hard to handle any uncertainty.
“No,” he says.
“I thought you wanted nothing to do with me, Mr. Cold.”
“Is that my new nickname?” he says.
“Yeah, based on earlier.”
“I had to be cold,” he says.
“Why? Why did you have to be so mean? You made me feel worthless, honestly.”
Oh, God, I need to get a grip. It’s happening again, just like it did after I left his apartment. Tears try to slide down my cheeks, but I force them away.
“You don’t want to ask questions like that,” he snaps.
“Here you go again, Mr. Cold. No, Mr. Douchebag.” I pause, waiting for him to speak. When he doesn’t, I say, “Okay, lay it on me. Why don’t I want to say stuff like that, huh?”
CHAPTER
NINE
Brian
I sit in the half-finished tattoo studio on the tat chair, the workmen gone home for the day. An electric floor lamp shines light across the wallpaperless walls, and light glows in my chest, too—a burning, smoldering light that originates with Evie.
“Why?” she says again when I don’t answer.
“You know why,” I growl.
I’ve got to give the most obvious explanation, not the one I was on the verge of giving. I was about to tell her I turned cold because I had to. Otherwise, I’d grab her, kiss her, and own her.
“Dad,” she says, sighing, telling the lie for me.
“What else?”
What a piece of work I am, lying to the only woman I want to spend my life with.
“So you agree,” she goes on. “We should think of a reason to cancel the tattooing session.”
“We should, yes,” I tell her.
“But…”
I smirk. “Who said there was a but?”
“Silly. You don’t have to say things like that. I can hear it in your voice.”
“But I’m sitting here, Evie, thinking I’d like that star on my shoulder sometime soon. What are you doing this evening?”
Even as I talk, there’s another version of me trying to break through, crack through the surface of my personality, stop me from going all the way, and stop me from betraying my friend more than I already have. Hopefully, she’ll tell me no. She can’t do it. This whole thing has been a mistake. She’ll tell me that we never should’ve done anything, to begin with, and she hates me for pushing her too hard, too fast.
That would shatter me in countless ways, hearing something like that from my woman. It would hurt and feel like all the hope is draining from my impossible vision of the future, but it would save Roger, who’s always been there for me.
“Nothing,” she says, her voice getting cute and flirty. “I could try to do some tattooing.”
“I’m at the studio,” I tell her, “but I could pick you up.”
