“But…”
“You’re good at this.”
My cheeks flush. “You don’t—”
“Yeah. I do.” His eyes fix on mine. “Good enough to charge.”
“Maybe.” Definitely not.
“Those covers you showed me—”
I clear my throat. Motion to Brendon, still in his suite in the front of the shop.
Ryan’s hair falls in front of his eyes as he leans over the counter. “Why’s the title I Love Fucking Brendon with a picture of me?”
Because it’s actually I Want to Fuck Ryan. I press my lips together. Force a poker face.
It falls apart as I look him in the eyes.
“Explain.” He straightens himself as he stands. “Or I can tell—” He motions to Brendon’s suite.
“You won’t.”
He shrugs won’t I?
No. But I need to keep his guard down. “It may have said Ryan. Just Ryan. Like Cher.”
He shakes his head you’re ridiculous.
I close my computer. Slide off my stool. “You meant what you said last night? About the run?”
“Of course.”
“You ready to go?” I pick my backpack off the floor. Set it on the counter. “I can change now.”
He nods. “Meet you here in ten.”
“Sure.”
I inhale through my nose as I push the ground away. My next breath is easier. My body takes over. I fall into step next to Ryan.
We’re doing an eight-minute mile. Faster than my usual pace. Slower than his.
We’re already such a good fake couple, compromising on our running speed.
My thoughts drift away as my sneakers hit the ground.
Pounding the pavement clears my head. When I run, it doesn’t matter that I have no idea what I’m doing with my life.
It doesn’t matter that my mom chooses booze over me.
It doesn’t matter that Ryan barely knows I’m female.
Running is like sex. When it’s good, it’s the only thing that matters.
I forget about my plan. I forget about Ryan’s ex. I forget about everything except my body.
We stay like that for two miles, breathing and moving together.
The sky streaks red as Ryan stops at a water fountain. He pushes his hair behind his ear, bends, drinks.
His messy waves fall to his shoulders as he stands.
He fills his bottle then steps aside. Motions to the fountain.
I place my hands on the stone. My ass brushes his hip as I bend.
My body buzzes. The water is cold on my lips, tongue, cheeks, but it does nothing to temper the heat racing through me.
He runs his hand through his hair. “You good?”
I’d be better if we were naked. “Yeah.”
“You’re welcome.”
I flip him off.
He chuckles.
This is it. He’s relaxed. We’re sweaty and half-naked. And losing the light.
I pull out my cell. “Let’s take a picture.”
He raises a brow.
“Life doesn’t happen unless you document it on social media.”
“I don’t do social media.”
“You post all of your tattoos on Instagram.”
“That’s for work.”
“You have a Facebook. You just ignore it.” Or, more accurately, he’s ignored it since he and Penny broke up.
But that’s an ugly technicality.
He pulls out his cell. “I’ll do you first.”
Yes. Strip off my shorts and panties then plant your head between my legs. I want to tug on your hair as I come. “I’m a mess.”
“How?”
I motion to my flushed, sweaty face.
“You look just fucked.”
“I’m wearing too many clothes.”
He shakes his head. “You’re wearing nothing.”
“Uh… Okay.” This is good. I’m wearing nothing. I look just fucked. If I post this, write something sexy, Penny will see it.
Text him.
Like it.
Somehow goad him into doing this.
I smile, attempting a casual pose.
He stares at the cell screen.
I press my lips into a smile.
Click.
I cock my hip. Muss my hair. Shoot the camera fuck me eyes.
Click.
There’s a picture of me on his phone. There’s a picture of me in a sports bra and tiny shorts on his phone.
My blush spreads over my chest. I force myself to look up at the sky. Throw my hand over my eyes. Pretend as if I’m endlessly fascinated by a plane flying overhead.
Click.
I brush my sweaty hair behind my ears. “I look terrible, don’t I?”
“You’re better than baiting for compliments.”
“You don’t understand the insecurity a girl feels posing for photos without makeup.”
“You call this without makeup?”
Okay, so I don’t leave home without winged eyeliner and dark lipstick. That isn’t a crime. “With less makeup.”
“You look perfect, Leigh. Like a punk rock princess.”
“You know that’s a Something Corporate song.”
“I knew the first time you told me.” He stares at the screen. “Still suits you.”
I shake my head you’re ridiculous, even though I love the nickname.
I love that he thinks I’m a punk rock princess.
I love that he notices my hair, clothes, and makeup.
I turn back to Ryan, uncap my water bottle, suck the last drop of water from the mouthpiece.
Click.
“Not sure I get this, Leigh.”
“It’s fun.” I pull my cell out. “Your turn.”
He shoots me that you’re ridiculous look, but he still straightens his t-shirt.
He stares up at the sky like all his hopes and dreams are in the sunset. Click.
He turns to the camera. His piercing blue eyes fill with this gorgeous mix of hurt and frustration. Click.
Then he blinks, and it’s garden grade exhaustion. Click.
I move closer. “Take one with me.”
His eyes light up with epiphany. “No.”
“Why not?”
“You’re better than this.”
“Than posing during a run with my best friend?”
His expression softens. It means something to him, being my best friend.
It’s my chance to strike. “I’ll post it on Facebook. Tag you. That’s it.” I cross my fingers behind my back. “Maybe make one little suggestive comment.”
“‘Just finished fucking my boyfriend. His ex is missing out on his generosity.’”
“I was thinking ‘massive cock,’ but that’s good too.” Generosity. He’s generous. As in he wants to eat me out. I mean, not me, but…
“Leigh?”
“Are you generous?”
“Not discussing this.”
“I’m going to take that as a no.”
“Your call.” His eyes narrow. It’s a drop it, now.
Fine. Pushing him is only going to push him away. “Just come here and pose for the proper picture with me.” I motion to the ground on your knees.
He laughs. “Subtle.”
“Thanks.” I motion to the ground again. “I’m waiting.”
His smile spreads over his cheeks. He moves closer. Joins me on the selfie side of the phone. “What’s this accomplish?”
“A reaction.”
“Yeah.”
I rest my head against his chest. Look to the camera with a smile.
He stares at the cell.
Click.
I look up at him. Stare into his eyes like he’s the only thing I want.
No, he is the only thing I want.
But he can’t know that.
He stares back at me, his blue eyes curious, his expression soft.
Click.
“One more,” I whisper.
He nods. Leans
forward. Brushes my hair behind my ear.
My eyelids press together. My head tilts to one side. I let out a soft sigh.
Click.
His eyes find mine. “You doing this now?”
“No time like the present.”
He watches as I pull up Facebook. Pick the perfect three pictures—the hottest one of him, the most flattering one of me, the cutest one of us together—and add a caption. Ryan always makes me sweat.
I show it to him. “Okay?”
“All right.”
“Put it on your Instagram too.”
“She doesn’t check—”
“Then what’s it hurt?”
Chapter 6
Ryan
Red, orange, yellow, and green hit the pan with a sizzle. I grate ginger over sliced bell peppers. Add rice vinegar. Stir.
The shower turns off.
Footsteps move into the hallway. “I left my change of clothes at the shop.”
Leighton is standing in the hallway, wrapped in only a black towel.
She holds it closed with one hand. Pushes her short hair behind her ear with the other.
She’s dripping wet.
But I don’t care that she’s dragging water all over the hardwood floor.
Only that she’s naked under that thin layer of cotton.
She looks so much like the Leighton I know.
Her hair is still hanging at her chin.
Her eye makeup is that same seamless line.
But her lips are bare.
Her tits—
I shake my head. Push away the mental image of her without that towel, my hand between her legs, her lips parting with a groan of pleasure.
My heart thuds against my chest.
My back tenses.
The thought of Leighton coming is hot as fuck, but it’s confusing.
Penny was the last person I touched.
She’s the only person I’ve touched.
Sex and lies are a tangled mess in my brain. What I have with Leighton is the opposite of that.
That’s why it works.
We’re honest with each other because we aren’t making each other come.
“Ryan?” She cinches her towel tighter. “Clothes?”
“You can grab a t-shirt from my dresser. Top drawer.”
“Boxers?”
“Might have a pair in the bottom drawer.”
“Is it laundry day?”
I shoot her a really look.
“Oh.” Her eyes light up. “You go commando.”
“Yeah.”
Her gaze shifts to my crotch. Her pupils dilate. Her cheeks flush. “I, um, maybe sweat pants. Or a parka. It’s freezing in here.”
“Like my soul.”
She laughs. “That was good. You’re improving.”
“You think I can’t make you laugh?”
“No.” She spins on her heels. “I think you choose not to.”
Maybe. I’ve never been a happy-go-lucky guy. I’ve always tried to have a sense of humor about myself. At least about how fucking miserable I am.
But I used to enjoy a lot more shit.
I used to smile at the guys’ stupid jokes, even when I had to keep up that I’m the boss poker face.
I move to the kitchen. Drown the images flitting through my head—Leighton stripping out of that towel, lying on my bed, spreading her legs wide and motioning come here—in fixing dinner.
I combine the chicken and vegetables, add sauce, stir, turn the pan to simmer.
Sesame oil for the finishing touch.
My bedroom door opens. Footsteps move through the hallway, into the kitchen.
Leighton smooths my black Inked Hearts t-shirt. “You’re too fit.”
“Am I?”
“Yeah.” She tugs at the pajama pants she’s wearing. “They’re tight on me.”
“Guys have narrower hips.”
“Still.”
“You gonna tell me something about how you don’t like your hips?” I force myself to stare into her eyes. “That’s ridiculous, Leigh. You know you’re hot.”
“I do?”
“You wearing those tight dresses for your health?”
“It’s hot.”
“Exactly.”
She laughs. “Another joke. I think I might be corrupting you. Tell me you’re thinking dirty thoughts.”
You have no fucking idea. “Grab your laptop. We’ll start setting up after we eat.”
The playfulness fades from her voice. “I don’t remember agreeing to this.”
“Then don’t.” I shrug, playing coy. “Grab drinks. I’ll bring the food to the table.”
She rises to her tiptoes to open the top cabinet. “Bourbon or water?”
“Water.”
“Me too.”
“You don’t drink bourbon.”
“But you keep Belvedere here for me.”
I do. I keep a lot of shit here for Leighton, even though we do most of our hanging elsewhere.
“It’s wrong when it’s too hot for vodka.”
“I thought it was as cold as my soul in here?”
“It is.” She smiles. “There’s this vodka lounge in Vegas where everything is made out of ice.”
“Is there?”
“Yeah. Even the glasses. They give you a parka so you don’t freeze to death.”
“And?” I play the straight-man.
“It was much warmer than your apartment.”
I laugh. It’s a cheesy, obvious joke. It wasn’t funny the first time. Or the second. But the fiftieth time? It feels like home. “Still don’t believe this place exists.”
“We can go right now.” She looks to the time on the microwave. “Be there by midnight.”
“Is it open?”
“It’s a bar.”
“That isn’t a yes.”
“If not, we can wait until tomorrow.” She grabs two glasses from the shelf. Her ass brushes mine as she moves to the sink, fills the cups with water. “We can one-up Penny. Get married there.”
“Crash her bachelorette party to announce it?”
“Yes. Perfect.” She brushes against me as she moves out of the kitchen. Into the main room. She sets the glasses on the table, slides into a dining chair, sits cross-legged. “Is she having a bachelorette party?”
I shrug like I don’t know.
“Ryan Maddox.” Leighton laughs. “You stalked her, didn’t you?”
“No.”
“You did.” She shakes her head with a faux tsk tsk. “And you say you’re better than all this pretending bullshit.”
“Dean informed me.”
“Is that reverse psychology?”
“He’s not smart enough for that.” I scoop food onto ceramic plates, grab silverware, bring everything to the table.
“He’s smarter than he acts.”
“Would it be possible for him to be stupider than he acts?”
Her laugh lights up her light eyes. “True.” She smiles as I hand over her fork. “This looks amazing.”
“Thanks.” I sit next to her.
“No.” She stabs a piece of chicken, brings it to her mouth, chews, talks with her mouth full. “Thank you.”
My cheeks flush. It’s weird, accepting gratitude.
I’m not used to it.
I can’t wrap my head around the idea of deserving it.
Making Leighton dinner is a selfish decision.
I want her eating with me. I want her groaning over how good the food is.
I want to fall asleep tonight, knowing she’s eating actual food.
Knowing someone is taking care of her.
I want to be that person.
“You’re welcome.” The words are awkward on my lips.
“God.” She lets out a soft moan. “You’re too good at this.”
I shoot her a curious look.
“I’m going to have to kidnap you.” She brings a slice of red pepper to her lips. “Force you to cook for me.”
“You c
ould just ask.”
“That’s less exciting than kidnapping.”
“You want to go?” I motion to the empty area between the TV and the couch. “See if you can overpower me?”
Her teeth sink into her lip. “Is this where you invite me to karate again?”
“It’s aikido.”
“Will people hit me?”
“You spar, yeah.”
“I’m out.” She leans back in her seat. Exaggerates a sigh of defeat. “I guess I have to ask nicely.”
“I’m waiting.”
“I’m thinking about it.” She takes a long sip of her water. “Are you?”
“Leigh—”
“Was it that awful, posing for a picture with me?”
No. It felt good. Too good. “Drop it or leave.”
“You wouldn’t kick me out.”
“Try me.”
She stares into my eyes, picking me apart. She must decide I’m willing to make due on the threat, because she drops the subject in favor of taking another bite.
We eat in silence for a while. It’s not like the quiet when I’m alone. It doesn’t suffocate me.
It’s comfortable.
Easy.
Dinner is perfect, but it’s not the taste that thrills me. It’s the satisfaction spreading over her face.
I want more of it.
I want it in ways I shouldn’t.
I grab the easiest distraction I can find.
“Let’s get started.” I motion to her laptop.
“I didn’t agree.”
“Then don’t do it.”
She presses her lips together. “I run the Inked Hearts website.”
“And?”
“I know how to do this.”
“If you don’t want help—”
“I don’t want to do it at all.”
“You’re stubborn.”
“And you’re not?” She opens her laptop, types her password, turns it to me. When I don’t respond, she nods with triumph. “There are too many options.”
“Use what we use for Inked Hearts.” I type the website into the search bar. “You have a name in mind?”
“Even More Inked Hearts?”
I chuckle. “Really?”
“Inked Wing Designs.”
“That’s your tattoo.” I check that the domain is available.
“Yeah.” Awkwardness drips into her voice. “It, um… It’s alis volat propiis.”
“She flies by her own wings.”
“You know Latin?”
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