His smile lights up his bright eyes. "Is that a challenge?"
"Yeah." The words tumble out of my mouth without stopping in my brain. When it comes to Dean, I'm senseless. I'm compelled to push back. And to linger in his presence.
"I know just the place. But lunch first. I'm starving—"
My stomach grumbles at the thought of food.
"There's a nearby place with great cheese enchiladas."
Mmm.
"On me."
"I'm in."
This is bliss.
Cheese and tomato nirvana.
Some other plane of existence, where corn, red sauce, cheese, and guacamole meld into flavor perfection.
I let out a soft groan as I take my next bite. The enchilada melts in my mouth. Soft tortillas. Chewy cheese. Rich, wet sauce.
"Fuck, Chloe. You're giving me ideas."
I flip Dean off, but it's without enthusiasm. This lunch is too good. There's no room for anger or frustration or irritation in my brain.
I chew, swallow, suck water from my straw. Let out another soft sigh.
Dean chuckles. "You're gonna attract attention."
It's possible. We're at a trendy place on Abbot Kinney. The covered backyard patio is quiet but the half a dozen tables around us are full.
It's beautiful here. Cacti, flowers, red and white string lights shining against the green canopy.
Dean picks up the carafe. Refills my tiny water cup.
I finish it in three gulps.
Even sitting down, he's tall. I have to look up at him.
He's different than I remembered. But the same too. This guy, the one who insists on helping me, who fixes my tea, who cares about making sure my food is vegetarian—he asked the waiter if there was chicken broth in the Spanish rice twice—was he always there or is he new?
I don't know.
But I…
I really like him. This other Dean. And the original one too. As annoying as he is, that guy still pushes all my buttons—the hate ones and the love ones.
He takes a bite of his shrimp taco. Chews. Swallows. Licks guacamole from his lips. "You've been working at the shop a week now."
"Accurate."
"Who do you like working with best?"
"Uh." That's a loaded question if I've ever heard one. Even if Dean's the one asking it. "You really think there's a chance I'll say you?"
"How do you know that's what I'm getting at?"
"What else could it be?"
"All right. New question. You feel like you've learned a lot?"
I scoop another forkful of enchilada into my mouth. Chew. Swallow.
The last week is a blur of drawings, stencils, ink and skin, the buzz of the gun.
Dean's incessant teasing.
Ryan's quiet nods.
Walker's boyish laugh.
Brendon's… well, he's pretty much a more built, darker haired version of Ryan. Right down to the gushing about his girlfriend. And the girlfriend hanging out at the front desk a few times a week sending goo-goo eyes.
Not that the displays of affection send pangs of jealousy straight to my gut.
But you know, not all of us are lucky enough to be in love.
Or even believe in love.
They don't have to be so obvious about it.
"Chloe?" Dean scoops salsa verde onto his last taco. "You okay?"
"Wiped."
"Damn. Was gonna suggest a hike."
"Where?"
"Los Liones. Say, seven miles. Ten maybe."
"It's too late."
"In the morning."
"I'm good for it."
"You're that competitive?"
"You're not?"
His laugh is hearty. Knowing.
He leans back in his seat as he takes a bite from his taco. It drips over his hands. Onto his plate.
He finishes it with two more bites.
Licks salsa from his fingers.
His eyes meet mine as he sucks on his pointer finger. It's intentional, but it's not a come-on exactly. More a reminder of a possibility.
Dean still wants me.
But he's not offering anything.
At least, I don't think he's offering anything.
He's hard to read.
"I would, but I'm working tomorrow." He leans forward. Refills both our waters with the carafe.
"You have to work Sundays?"
"I have to work tonight. We all take weekend appointments."
"But I'm off?"
"'Cause weekends are busy and you're dead weight."
"Oh." I shrink back. He's being real with me, but the words still hurt. Right now, I'm in the way. I'm helpful, yes. I get coffee, I print mock-ups, I run errands. But when I'm sitting on the stool observing, I'm another person in the way. Like a friend or family member only without the benefit of distracting the client.
"You're a great apprentice, Chloe. Smart, dedicated, helpful. But, tell me—do you feel like Ryan is trying to teach you?"
"Trying? Probably. But he's really quiet. He responds to most of my questions with one-word answers."
"Walker?"
"He's friendly but kinda distracted."
"Brendon?"
"He's intense."
Dean chuckles. "Yeah, he is. Hot though."
"Not my type."
He flips his drying hair. "You prefer blonds?"
Actually, yes. Light hair and light eyes any day of the week.
"Fuck. You do. You're easy to read."
"I am not."
"Yeah. You are. When you aren't pissed, you smile a lot."
"I do not."
"Maybe with other people you don't. But when you're with me—"
"I do not."
"I can start recording it."
I take another bite. Still tomato and cheese perfection. Still warm and rich. "That's creepy."
"You really don't notice it?"
No. But now that I think about it, he's right. I've smiled more today than I have any day the last month. I've smiled more this week than I have in the last year.
Yes, I've frowned and ughed and wanted to slap the stupid out of Dean a lot too.
But, overall, I feel good. Like I'm finally where I belong.
Like I'm with someone—
No. I'm not with Dean. We're hanging out. As friends or coworkers or mentor/student. I'm not sure, but I'm sure it's not sexual. Even if he keeps looking at me like he's thinking about me naked.
I don't blame him.
I'm doing the same.
God, the way that white t-shirt stretches over his shoulders. The cotton is damp. See-through. I can make out the ink over his right pec. Words, but what are they? And, God, the outlines of his muscles. He's just so…
Hot.
There's no other way to express it.
Dean Maddox is sex on a stick.
I look around the room. Find another hottie—a guy on a date with a short blond woman. He's tall, fit, with pretty blue eyes and dark hair.
Hot, even if he isn't my type.
But my body isn't responding.
Then I look to Dean. To his bright eyes and his wicked smile and his perfect pecs.
My heartbeat picks up.
My stomach flutters.
My sex clenches.
And my head… fuck, it fills with so many ideas.
He catches me staring. "I'm starting to think you invited me out just to picture me naked."
"You invited me out."
"To picture you naked. Fuck. Freudian slip."
"You know about Freud?"
"Yeah. He's my idol. With him, everything was about dick. Dick was basically the center of the psyche."
I can't help but laugh. That's dead on. "It sums you up."
"Can't go three seconds without thinking about what I'm gonna do with mine."
"Touch yourself?"
"Here? I'll get arrested. But if you want it that badly—" He stands. Makes a show of reaching for his button.
Actually u
ndoes the button.
And the zipper.
He's still wearing that tight Speedo. But he's… He's not quite hard, but he's getting there. I can just make out the shape of his—
"More water?" The waiter drops off a carafe. Exchanges ours.
"Yeah. Thanks. I really worked up her thirst." Dean winks at me as he slides into his seat.
Tragically, he redoes the button of his jeans.
I force myself to stare into his eyes. This is so weird. Wanting him without all the hate rising in my gut.
Wanting him period.
The last time I wanted someone this much was…
That night in high school.
Don't get me wrong. I loved Alex. I loved having sex with him. But it was never tear your clothes off passion. It was comfortable. Easy. Safe.
"And me?" he asks.
"You?"
"How am I as a teacher?"
"Pushy."
He nods.
"Bossy."
"Of course."
"Annoying."
"And?"
I bite my lip. There's still a huge part of me that hates stroking his ego, but this is the truth. "You're a great teacher."
He beams. It's different than his usual bragging. There's no posturing to it. Just pride. "I must be good if you can admit that."
"You are. Ryan, Brendon, and Walker are friendly enough. But they just ask me to sit there and watch. You try to teach me things. Even if some of them are sexual harassment."
He chuckles. "I did stop."
"You did."
"But I can change that anytime." He takes a long sip of his water. "Balls in your court there."
"And it's staying there."
His laugh is loud. Hearty.
It warms me somewhere that's usually cold.
It makes every part of me feel good. It's the same as it used to be with Alex.
No, it’s better.
I… I really like him.
"I have an offer for you," he says.
"I'm not wearing panties. I can't tell you what color they are."
"Your swimsuit is black. Like all your panties."
"They are not." They are too. But I'm not admitting that.
"Prove it."
"I will."
"You do realize you'll have to show me your underwear to do that?"
"Yes." I walked right into that. But… ugh, I just want to prove him wrong so badly. He stokes something in me. Desire. Need. Competitive fire. "What's the offer?"
"You can apprentice under me. Just me."
"In exchange for?"
"Your Saturday mornings."
"My Saturday mornings?"
"You do what I say."
"Extra lessons?"
"Yeah, but not about ink."
My brow furrows. What? "You want to teach me about…"
"There's more to tattoos than putting ink to people's skin. There's a philosophy."
"Which is?"
"Every artist has theirs. What's yours?"
"I don't know."
"I'll help you find it."
"How?"
"Living."
"Bullshit." I fold my arms. "What's your real motivation?"
"That ink line didn't land?"
"Not even a little."
He laughs. "It's simple. You don't have enough fun in your life."
"You don't know anything about my life."
"Yeah, I do. I've watched and listened all week. You get to work, you go to aikido, you go home. That's it."
"I draw."
"And what? Watch TV?"
"I love TV."
"I love TV too, but I love a lot of other shit. What do you love, besides drawing and ink and TV?"
"My family."
"And?"
"What business is it of yours?"
"That's the offer. I make it my business."
I bite my lip. There's something appealing about the excuse to spend more time with Dean. But that's dangerous. I like him too much to keep my hands off him. "What do you love?"
"Tea."
"I love tea."
"Surfing. Hiking. Hanging with my friends, shooting the shit. Hitting the gym with Walker. Teasing Ryan. Going out for drinks. Going to shows. I've done all that shit in the last two weeks. What about you?"
"I just went surfing."
He shoots me a really look.
"I like my life."
"It's just an offer, Chloe. I teach you everything I want to teach you—"
"You mean?"
"No. Ryan would kill me."
"Oh." Disappointment seeps into my voice. I hate how badly I want him. I hate how easily he wraps me around his finger. How good his read on me is.
But, mostly, I hate that I really can't hate him.
"Expires at midnight," he says.
"Won't you be balls deep in some babe at midnight?" I bite my lip, but it does nothing to chase away the jealousy brewing in my gut. I hate the idea of him with anyone else much less with some anonymous leggy blonde. Because, in my head, it's always a leggy blonde with curves for days and all the experience in the world and everything I don't have.
"I work first thing tomorrow."
"So, you'll be done by eleven?"
He gives me a long, slow once over. "You know me too well."
Chapter Thirteen
Chloe
"Mmmm." I let out a soft moan.
This tea is perfection. Creamy milk, sweet honey, the astringent mix of bergamot, lavender, and black tea.
Is there anything better than a London Fog? Doubtful.
"I don't see it." Gia takes a long sip. Scrunches her nose in distaste. "It's so…"
"Robust."
"Weak." She stares at her mug curiously. "I'm trying, honestly, Chlo. But I just don't get tea." She takes another sip. "The honey is good." She reaches for a chocolate chip cookie.
After I got back from lunch with Dean, I needed to clear my head. I was too tired to go for a swim, so I started baking. Four hours later, the house is flush with sweet treats.
I grab an Earl Grey brownie and take a bite. Chocolate chips melt on my tongue. The Earl Grey flavor is subtle. Just enough to add depth to the semi-sweet chocolate.
Gia looks at the brownie curiously. "I don't know."
"I've made you espresso brownies a hundred times."
"But coffee and chocolate… that's everything that's right in the world."
"If you don't want it, don't eat it."
She tears a chunk from my plain white plate. After Mom died, Dad packed away all the fancy plates and cutlery.
At first, it was strange, like he was erasing her. But that wasn't it. He couldn't stomach the tiny memories of her. He couldn't handle scooping eggs onto his plate and seeing everything he'd lost.
All right. Maybe it was me as much as it was Dad.
But now the white plates and the dull silverware speak to her absence as much as the fancy plates do.
This is the plate for a life without Mom.
For a world where she doesn't exist.
Outside, the garage door whirs.
Gia slides out of her chair. Moves into the kitchen and starts scooping ground coffee into the machine. "You think he'll want some?"
"Probably." Coffee has always been Dad's drink. Tea was Mom's. I feel closer to her when I brew a cup. And, well, I guess after nearly fifteen years I'm desperate to hold onto her memory.
I savor the last sip of my London Fog then get to work on Gia's. It's lukewarm, but it's still good.
"There." Gia presses the button on the coffee maker. Reaches into the cabinet for two mugs. Lucky girl is five foot five. She never struggles to reach a high shelf.
She looks like Mom—round eyes, wavy hair, angled features.
She passes as white.
I don't. I take after Dad.
I'm proud of my heritage, but the what are you questions? I'd happily part with those forever.
Gia taps her fingers against the counter as she waits
for the carafe to fill.
Dad's car pulls into the garage. The door opens and slams shut. Then he's in the hallway and the garage door is whirring closed.
"Do I smell coffee?" he asks.
Gia beams. "Hey Daddy!" Even at twenty-six, she's pure Daddy's girl.
He moves into the kitchen and hugs her hello.
"Go. Sit. I'll fix your coffee," she says.
His dark eyes pass over the counter. "Did you rob a bakery?"
"I'll bring them to work Monday." Or not. There's no food allowed at the shop. But I can wrap everything in plastic. Insist people eat it outside.
He takes a seat next to me. "You should have come to the movie."
"You know I don't like action." I tear off another chunk of brownie. Toss it in my mouth. Let it dissolve on my tongue.
He reaches for one, but Gia stops him.
"Careful, they're Earl Grey," she says.
He ignores her warning. Takes a bite. Shoots me a thumbs-up. "It was thinky. You'd like it."
"Thinky how?" I laugh. Dad loves movies. Great ones and terrible ones. "Did the spy have to outsmart the Russian super villains?"
"She's impossible, huh?" Gia teases.
"Oh?" I stare down my sister. "You want to see it—" I try and fail to recall the name of the weekend's latest spy thriller.
"Well…" She turns to the coffee maker. Pours two cups. "I would see it."
"I would see it too. But that doesn't mean I want to," I say.
Dad looks between us. Smiles wistfully, the way he does when he's lost in a memory. "We can watch the first one after dinner."
Gia shoots me a how do we get out of this look.
He catches it. "Are you staying for dinner, sweetie?"
"Sure. Mark is at the office." She gets milk from the fridge. Pours it into both mugs. She and Dad take their coffee the same way—sweet and creamy.
"Are you hungry?" I ask Dad. "I can start cooking."
"Let's order pizza." Gia moves into the living room. Sets Dad's coffee in front of him. Slides into the seat across from me and sips hers.
I fight a frown. Cooking makes me feel good. It's how I show Dad and Gia I love them. "No. I'll cook."
Gia scrunches her nose. "I'm not in the mood for something vegetarian."
"Something like pizza?" I ask.
"It won't kill you." Dad takes a long sip of his coffee. "It's good for your cholesterol."
Hating You, Loving You Page 11