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Icouldn'tputmyfinger on the difference in Brady, but it was there, like a shadow had slipped between us. Something about him had changed in the short time we'd been teasing each other at Slice. A light had gone out.
I frowned, pretending to consider his question, when all I could think about was him. Brady rubbed me the wrong way with his annoyingly particular habits, but they were still preferable to the closed-off mask he wore now.
Gone was the subtle flirting, and in its place – sadness?
I didn't like the idea that Brady might be sporting scars of his own under the surface. I'd cast the prissy principal as the villain in my day, and I wasn't ready to let go of him in that role yet. I needed a focus for my negative energy, and he'd provided a welcome punching bag, needling me at every opportunity.
Sympathy was the last emotion I wanted to feel, but something about the sorrow around his eyes caught at my heart, turning what should have been a blistering review of his attributes as an auction partner after the grief he'd put me through securing the venue into something kinder.
"Brady, we just appreciate your donation."
It was a lame answer, a weakness leftover from the old Eve that I was trying to stamp out. I tried to rally, reaching for the fiery attitude that had gotten me through the implosion of my old career, launching me into a new identity in Campfire.
Casting around for an idea he'd hate, something to remind me of why he and I were oil and water, I snapped my fingers, letting a slow smile of satisfaction paper over the momentary lapse in toughness.
"I've got it – couples' tattoos."
Brady's dark frown wiped the lingering sadness from his eyes. "Not a chance in hell, Eve."
I leaned back, feigning innocence, and secretly pleased that I’d broken through his cool. "What? Why not? I'd even offer a discount on my time. You and your new lady friend could get matching tattoos to commemorate the occasion."
"I'm not permanently scarring my body as an auction donation," Brady grumbled, all brusque disdain.
Warming to my idea, I fluttered my hands, as if I could brush away his reserve.
"Think about it. It's romantic and a little bit intimate, perfect."
"No."
His stern expression brooked no argument, but once started, I couldn't seem to stop.
"Come on, Principal Gleason. If you're really feeling stuffy about it, you could always get something tame, like the McDonald High Grizzly mascot."
Brady's chiseled jaw drew taught, his bushy dark brows drawn down over his brown eyes. Still handsome, even when he frowned. Even the way his ears stuck out, just a bit, beyond the wave of his dark hair was cute. The man had been blessed in the genetics department.
"Eve," he rumbled, sounding annoyed. "Forget I asked."
I relaxed, grabbing another slice of pizza with a grin. If my mission had been to annoy him, I'd succeeded. One-hundred-percent accomplished. I ignored the whisper that acknowledged the truth: my teasing was as much about wiping away his sadness as it was about pricking his overblown perfectionism.
Brady Gleason may get on my nerves, but underneath it all, a pureness in him hinted at past sorrow. A burden he couldn't put down. The part of me still ashamed of my past mistakes could commiserate with that desire to paper over the present with a new identity.
Some people dealt with tragedy by becoming perfect in every way; others embraced their badass. I’d channeled every heroine I admired in forming my new identity. Perfection wasn't just unobtainable, it was totally overrated. I'd decided it was better to choose a new life than cling to the old.
We finished our pizza companionably, avoiding any controversial subjects, focusing instead on small talk about where we'd both traveled. I was surprised to learn that Brady and I had visited many of the same places, though at different times. He seemed to devote his summers to travel, escaping Campfire’s oppressive heat. I'd established the habit of booking a trip every three or four months for myself, arranging my schedule at the tattoo shop to give me the freedom to travel. Whether to a new city or new country, I picked an adventure. It was the one aspect of owning my own business that I loved. Teaching had meant that I'd been beholden to the school calendar, missing opportunities during the year. At Fierce Ink, I had freedom.
Shoving away thoughts of my past, I thanked Izzy as she bussed our table.
"Can I walk you to your car?" Brady asked after paying our tab, claiming it as the least he could do for making me work late.
"You don't have to do that," I said, touched that he'd offer. Then again, that was Brady, polite to a fault.
He scratched his head. "Actually, uh I do."
Gallant to the end, I had to convince him I wasn't his perfect princess in need of protection. "It's only a few blocks to my place," I admitted. "I didn't drive to school."
"Oh, okay. In that case, can you bring my jacket back next practice?"
Chagrined, I realized I still wore his suit jacket and part of me didn’t want to give it back. Covering up his muscular forearms should be a crime. He looked absolutely delicious with his white shirt rolled up. As loathe as I was to see him return to the properly suited Principal Gleason, his request for his jacket had the double whammy of reminding me that I was lusting alone. He hadn't been intent on seeing me to my metaphorical door. He'd just wanted his stuff back. I hated to give up the warmth, but I shrugged, pulling one arm from his jacket in preparation for returning it when he stilled me with a palm on my forearm. The heat from that small gesture warmed me more than all the wool in the world.
