"Then I do that."
"No roommates in the way?"
"Haven't had a roommate in a long time."
"You don't like it?"
I nod.
"I'm not sure if I would either."
"It doesn't crimp your style as much as living with your dad, but it doesn't help."
"Right." She bites her lip. "Are you still sleeping around?"
"Still?"
"Never mind. It's none of my business." Her voice wavers. "And I don't even care." She fails to sell her apathy. Her lip corners turn down. Her nails sink into her black jeans.
"I'll tell if you do." The light turns green. I take off. Zoom straight to thirty miles an hour.
"No. That's okay."
"Has it really been that long?"
"Well…" She clears her throat. "Longer than you could imagine."
"My imagination is limited. That isn't hard."
"True." The tension in her jaw eases as she laughs. "It's been a while."
"Who was the last guy?"
"Alex."
"Fuck, that is a while."
"Two years." The words are matter of fact.
But they feel like a bomb. Two years. That's an eternity. "How is that possible?"
"It goes faster than you'd think."
"No way. It's been three weeks and I'm dying."
"But that was when I started—"
"Yeah."
"So you haven't?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"I keep thinking about you."
"You… you're waiting for me?"
"No. Just don't want to be with anyone else."
She leans into her seat. Lets out a soft sigh. "But we… has anything changed?"
"No." I'm still her boss. She's still my subordinate. And teaching her is still the most important thing in my life. Nothing can fuck this up.
"So, we…"
"Still shouldn't."
"Right. Of course."
The devil on my shoulder whispers in my ear. Doesn't mean we can't.
But I keep that to myself.
Chapter Eighteen
Dean
Chloe's eyes go wide as she steps into the tea room. She studies the floral wallpaper, the clean white tablecloths, the ornate wooden chairs.
This is a swanky joint. It's old-fashioned, all doilies and lace. Everyone in their Sunday best with the manners to match.
"Are you sure you're in the right place?" She looks up at me. "You probably can't drop f-bombs here."
"It's gonna be tough. Really." I lead her to the host stand. "Reservation for eleven thirty for Maddox."
"Right this way." The host beams. He leads us through the crowded room, to a round table near the window. The guy even pulls out Chloe's seat for her.
She nods thank you as she takes it. Unfolds her napkin and drapes it over her lap.
I'm not sure who looks more out of place—me in my surfer boy shorts and sandals or her in her artsy rebel combat boots and tight jeans.
We're not this place's usual crowd.
"Oh." Her eyes light up with epiphany. "The Golden Needle."
I nod.
"You're still thinking about that?"
"Man has to defend his honor."
"And you're doing that how?"
I point to the host. He's walking toward us with two tasting trays. Tiny white cups line white platters.
He sets one in front of Chloe and the other in front of me. "The key is right here." He motions to the paper in his hands then places it face-down. "I have you down for two vegetarian afternoon teas."
I nod. "That work?"
Chloe nods.
"Earl Grey?" I ask.
Under the table, she kicks me. "Yes, please." Her voice is sweet. Serene. Like she isn't bothered by how well I know her.
"And for you, sir?" he asks.
"Russian Caravan." I nod a thank you.
He heads back to the kitchen.
Chloe sinks into her chair. Her gaze settles on the tea. "How do we know who wins?"
"Whoever gets it right wins."
"Seems fair." Her eyes go to the paper. "How do I know you didn't cheat?"
"Winning isn't fun if you have to cheat."
Somehow, she believes me. "We both decide. Write it on a piece of paper face down. Reveal at the same time."
"Deal." I pick up my first cup. Take a long sip. Astringent. Grassy. Not Golden Needle, but good.
Her eyelids press together as she sips. Her lips part with a sigh.
Her brow relaxes.
Her chest heaves.
Her satisfaction does something to me. Warms me someplace that's normally cold.
I forget about our game.
Watch her drink instead.
She savors each cup. Studies flavors carefully. It's different than the way she stares at art. Less analytical. More emotional.
She picks up the third cup again. Takes another sip. "I think I have it."
Fuck, I don't. I rush through my teas. All four of them are good, but none stand out as Golden Needle. The second is too smoky. The third is nutty enough, but the fourth has a clearer flavor. I pick that one. Use the sharpie in my pocket (you never know when you need to draw a tattoo mock-up) to scribble it on a napkin.
She pulls a pen from her purse and writes her answer. "Ready?"
"On three."
We count down together. "One, two, three."
Flip. Hers reads three. Mine reads four.
I turn over the key.
It's one.
She laughs. "You were wrong. I think that means I win."
"I think it might."
Her chest spills forward as she leans in. "You do realize I was just"—she drops her voice to a whisper—"fucking with you?"
I hold my hand over my mouth to stage whisper. "You do realize I wasn't born yesterday?"
Her lips curl into a smile. "Doesn't explain your immaturity."
"True."
She picks up the first cup. Takes a long sip. "How did you get into tea?"
"My mom."
"Are you close?"
"No. But we were."
"What happened?"
I press my palms into my jeans. This is not a conversation I'm having. Not with her. Not with anyone.
The server spares me from finding a deflection. He drops off our lunch. Or maybe I should call it a feast.
Matching three-tiered plates are flush with finger sandwiches, cookies, scones, butter, jam, and lemon curd. The same shit my mom always ordered, only sans meat.
Another server drops off our tea.
Chloe stirs honey into her Earl Grey. "Was it that bad?"
"You could say that." I pour from my pot. Take a long sip. It's dark, rich, smoky. Perfect as is.
"Does she know how you feel?"
"Yeah."
"Does Ryan?"
I shake my head.
"Hmm." The gears in her mind turn. She pores over the possibilities. Tries to put it together.
But she won't. This is the kinda thing nobody thinks about their parents.
She brings her mug to her lips. Takes a long sip. Lets out a soft sigh. "How did your mom get you into tea?"
"She used to take us here. On Sundays. She'd dress us up in tiny little suits and meet her friends for afternoon tea."
She smiles at the mental image. "Were you already a troublemaker?"
"I was born a troublemaker."
"That's supposed to sound badass."
"Doesn't it?"
She shakes her head.
"You're killing me, Chloe."
"I'm sure." She plucks a cucumber sandwich from her plate. Takes a tiny bite. "This is weird."
"What about it?"
"You're being nice.
"I am not."
"You are so."
"Definitely not."
"Definitely so."
"I'm going to keep saying it."
She finishes her sandwich. "I'm sure you could go in circles for
hours."
I nod. I could. But I don't want to waste my time with her. I want to know more about her. To peel her open and pry her apart.
I can't have her body.
But we can be friends.
I'm capable of getting to know her without getting her clothes off. "How'd you get into tea?"
"My mom. She loved her morning ritual. She made a strong black tea every day. Waited until it was steeped just right then added a little milk, a little honey. I'd always try to get her to add more, but she'd say, 'you need balance, Chloe.'"
"She sounds like a monk."
"She was like that." She takes a long sip of her Earl Grey. Lets out a soft sigh. "It's funny. All my stories about Mom make her seem so wise and worldly. She was, but I didn't see her like that when she was here. And then… at the end…" Hurt fills her eyes.
I want to wipe it away. "How did it happen?"
"She got sick when I was eight." Her lips press together. "Breast cancer. An aggressive one. She was already stage three. She did everything. Mastectomy. Chemo. Radiation. But it wasn't enough." Her eyes turn down. Her finger glides over her cup. "It didn't seem fair, for her to go through all that only to die all the same."
"It never is."
"No, it's not." Her gaze shifts to the three-tier plate. She picks up a madeleine and dunks it in her tea. "Sorry. I'm killing the mood."
I shake my head.
"This is serious. And you're not."
"I'm a lot of things."
She brings the cookie to her lips. Takes a bite. Chews. Swallows. Crumbs fall onto her plate as she breaks off another piece. "I guess it's only been two minutes."
I arch a brow.
"That you've been serious."
I can't help but laugh. "I'm developing a tolerance. Might make it to four."
"I doubt it." She smiles, but there's a sadness to it. Those heavy memories are still weighing on her. "Your parents ever get sick?"
"Yeah. My dad. When I was a kid."
"What happened?"
"He lost a ball."
She drops the cookie. "What?"
"Testicular cancer."
"Oh." Her shoulders relax. A laugh rises up in her throat. "You… you really are ridiculous."
"You think this is ridiculous? Should have seen me at twelve. I was fucking terrified it would happen to me too."
"Really?"
I nod. At the time, it was the scariest thing in the world.
"Is he okay?"
"Yeah. It's treatable, as far as cancer goes. He caught it early."
"Did he have to do chemo?"
"No. Just radiation treatment for a few weeks. He took it in stride. Acted like it never fazed him. But now… I don't know. He must have been scared."
She nods. "It's scary when someone you love is sick. Not knowing what's gonna happen. Trying to be strong for them when you're falling apart inside."
"With your mom?"
"Yeah." Her voice trails off. Her gaze shifts to the cookie on her plate. "When she looked at me, and she saw the concern in my eyes… she had to swallow all her fear to placate me. She had to hide her feelings."
"You were a kid."
"But if I wasn't?"
"Doesn't matter. You were."
"But it must have been hard for her. Feeling like she had to convince me I was okay. Like she was the one who took the weight of everyone else's grief."
She's not talking about her mom anymore.
She's talking about someone else.
But who the hell is it?
Chapter Nineteen
Chloe
Dean never quite gets back to his carefree self.
We finish our massive lunches, sip another round of tea, drive back to my place with Stone Temple Pilots filling the car.
Hug goodbye.
I push my thoughts aside. Pour myself into tattoo mock-ups. Into swimming laps. Into inking bananas.
Sunday is work. I'm officially on Dean's schedule.
I sit next to him as he tapes a stencil to a pretty girl's ribs. I watch him flirt just enough to set her at ease. But it's not the same as it was. He holds back. Keeps the conversation tame. Glances at me every few sentences to check my reaction.
I barely manage to hide my jealousy.
I barely manage to keep my hands to myself.
I barely manage to swallow all the confessions that rise into my throat.
It was me. I was the one who had to convince everyone I was okay with dying. That their preemptive grief wasn't tearing me apart.
And it might be me again.
Even though our schedule is packed, the day passes slowly. My thoughts keep turning to kissing him. Touching him. Telling him.
We finish, I head to aikido, stretch, spar, drive home, make dinner for Dad, watch sitcom reruns on the couch, hide in my room with my sketchbook.
The entire time, I think of Dean. I consider calling him. Texting him. Demanding a shoulder to cry on, or a silly joke to make me smile, or a dirty demand to make me hot.
He wants me. He does. He's holding off for me. Because he knows this will explode in my face.
I can text him another picture of my panties. Demand he reciprocate. Ask him if he's hard. If he wants to fuck himself.
If I can watch.
I can do a lot of things.
But I don't.
I text him a request to take next Thursday off. For personal reasons.
And he texts back a perfectly professional sure.
And I fall asleep with my thoughts split between him and the terrifying reality check awaiting me.
Then I wake up, and I do it again.
Our Saturday morning date (is it a date? Do I want it to be a date?) is Dean's challenge to me: a long hike starting at Los Liones Drive.
At five to eight, he pulls onto the street. He shoots me a wink as he drives past me and parks three cars up.
I push off the hood. Hit my key fob to lock my sedan. Stretch my arms over my head. It's early, but the sky is already a brilliant blue.
Dean steps out of his car. Slides his hands into the pockets of his loose running shorts. "Nice to see you, sunshine."
I tug my backpack straps. Between his shorts and my backpack, this feels too much like high school. "Miserable to see you. As usual."
He brushes his bangs from his eyes. "That's what I like to hear."
"Should I have thrown in a dick face?"
He presses his hand to his heart. "Fuck. I'm not sure I'm ready for that."
"Uh-huh."
Dean offers his hand. "You ready to go?"
"Yeah."
"Can you do me?" He pulls his t-shirt over his head then stuffs it into his bag.
My heart thuds as he brandishes a bottle of sunscreen. This is standard friend stuff. But with Dean… it's just not.
Deep breath. Slow exhale. We're coworkers hiking together. Rubbing sunscreen over his bare chest is no big deal. It's absolutely, positively not a big deal. Not even remotely.
My fingers brush his as I take the bottle.
He looks down at me as I squeeze lotion into my palm.
I bring my hand to his chest.
Soft skin. Hard muscles. Lines of ink.
Fuck, he feels good against my fingertips.
I swallow hard, but it does nothing to calm the butterflies in my stomach. I'm rubbing sunscreen into Dean's chest. And he's so… tall and broad and hot and…
He's still looking down at me with those bright blue eyes.
I force myself to focus on my work. It's like a tattoo. Skin is skin. That's what Dean says.
So what if this skin belongs to the guy I want more than I want anything?
My body ignores my logic.
Desire races through my limbs. It builds in my fingertips, my nipples, my sex.
My toes curl into my sneakers.
My fingers curl into Dean's skin.
I force my palm to flatten, but that's no good. Now I'm touching more of his broad chest.
"You
okay?" He brushes a stray hair behind my ear.
"Why wouldn't I be?"
"You're red."
"I am not." I rub sunscreen into his taut stomach.
"Yeah, you are."
There. That's all his front. "Turn around."
He spins on his heels.
There. I can blush in peace. He's doing it on purpose. He's winding me up even though there's no way we can act on our desire.
He's evil.
The thought runs through my brain as I rub sunscreen into his muscular back and shoulders. But, bit by bit, my body takes over. My fingertips linger on his skin. I move closer. Inhale the scent of him.
Linen, sunscreen, and something all Dean.
He steps forward, breaking our touch. "Need me to do you?" He turns so we're face-to-face.
I shake my head. "Already done." For a second, I curse my habit of applying sunscreen every morning. But this is a good thing. If Dean starts running his fingers over my skin, I'm a goner.
He offers his hand. "I've got extra water in my trunk."
"I'm good." I press my palms into my sides. Move toward the trail. "Come on. Stop stalling. Let's do this."
He nods and follows me onto the trail.
It's all dirt and dry brush. The plants are short, waist high at most. Shade is rare.
He places his body behind mine, blocking the glare of the sun.
"Thanks." I dig my heels into the dirt, but my heels don't have enough grip. I need to keep my footsteps light.
"Need the tan anyway."
"Is that right?"
"Don't tell me it's a bad look."
"No, it suits you. Like a Hollister model."
"Hollister? Fuck, sunshine, how could you say that?"
I round the first bend in the trail. Duck under a short tree for a brief respite from the sun.
He's right behind me. Then next to me. He shoots me a smile. "At least give me Abercrombie and Fitch. Those are some hot models."
"I wouldn't know."
"Yeah." He nods to my black leggings and black tank top. "Where do you buy that gear?"
I move forward. "You really think I'd be caught dead in a preppy store?"
"No." He keeps his steps in time with mine. So he's next to me. "Just wanted to see your reaction."
"And?"
"Gold."
"I'm glad I can entertain."
He follows in silence for a few moments. The canyon fills with the gentle breeze, the sound of our footsteps, the feel of my heart thudding against my chest.
Hating You, Loving You Page 15