CRAZY FOR YOU: An Enemies to Lovers Romance (Material Girls Book 3)

by Sophia Henry

  “How do you wind down at the end of the day?”

  “Paint.” He says through a laugh as if he’s embarrassed of it. “Yoga. I meditate—or try to.”

  “You paint?” I ask, slightly surprised. He doesn’t look like an artist. Not that there’s a specific “look” to someone, but he’s only shown me his domineering managerial side.

  “I do. Mostly acrylic, but sometimes I dabble in oils. That’s taking me longer to get a handle on.”

  “How long have you been painting?”

  “Geez.” He takes a deep breath and leans back slightly as he thinks. “Maybe nine or ten years.”

  The time frame triggers something in my mind. It seems like Zayne’s been doing everything for about eight or nine years. Maybe it’s a weird thing to notice, but it reminds me of myself. Everything changed for me at thirteen. It’s almost as if my life started—or started over—that year. The end of innocence.

  It makes me wonder if something happened to Zayne ten years ago.

  A waiter stops at the coffee table and places two cups of steaming orange soup and a full, sliced baguette in front of us. I look from Zayne to the waiter in confusion.

  “Can I bring you anything else?” the waiter asks.

  “Do you want something else, Em?”

  I shake my head. “No, I’m good. Thank you.”

  After the waiter walks away, Zayne explains, “While you were being interviewed, I walked by someone eating this soup. It smelled amazing, so I ordered us some. Hope you like spicy Thai with butternut squash.” He grabs a spoon, using it point to the ramekin next to the bread. “And that’s non-dairy butter for the baguette.”

  Did blowing up at Zayne in the car finally win him over? Does he like feisty women who give him shit? Maybe I shouldn’t have held my tongue so much thinking he’d write me up and report Louis I’m a diva to be on tour with.

  “Thanks for ordering me something. I’m hungry, but exhausted. I probably would have gone straight to bed.”

  “Can’t have our newest team member passing out from starvation. We’re totally cool with exhaustion.”

  That makes me laugh. Zayne is absolutely right about the soup—it smells divine. Without wasting another second, I dig in. It’s spicy and sweet, with hints of garlic and ginger.

  “This is fricking phenomenal,” I say quickly before scooping up another mouthful.

  “I’ve noticed you like spicy stuff, so I thought it might be a hit.”

  His comment makes me think of something I learned from my father. For as long as I can remember, his secretary has kept notes on his important clients and valued business contacts. She knows their favorite wine, foods, flowers, what restaurants they eat at most—all kinds of things—so when it comes time to order a gift or make reservations, it’s personalized to each individual.

  It’s a philosophy I took with me when I started building my client base. In the age of smart phones, we all have a computer at our fingertips. I don’t need a fancy client management system to keep notes on people. All I do is jot down facts into the notes section of our appointment. Whether they’re in my chair for an hour or twenty (spread out over multiple sessions), I ask questions to get to know them.

  Some share more about themselves than others, but at the very least, they’ll tell me why they chose the tattoo they did. Then, if I have repeat customers, I check my notes to make sure I ask about a kid or their dad who had cancer—whatever it was they told me that was important to them. I think remembering details like that lets them know I care. Each client is a unique, not just a dollar sign.

  Fuck, I’d hate myself if I thought of anyone that way. I’ve gotten to the point where most of my clients are repeat customers, referrals from one of my regulars, or people who sought me because they saw my art somewhere and needed a piece from me.

  I wonder if Ambassador has the same type of system for the artists on their pro team. They’d have to, right? It’s a client-centered business and Zayne has been on top of it the entire time. From making sure there are vegan food options where ever we go to having my favorite mint tea in the hotel rooms when we get there to exactly what side of the building I like my room to be on. That might be the thing that impresses me the most. Despite what people may assume, I’m not a crazy, party-girl, night owl. Because I love getting up early and sketching in the morning sun, an east-facing room is always my preference.

  I’m not embarrassed one bit that it took me less than three minutes to drain my cup of soup. Hopefully, Zayne takes it as a compliment to how well he ordered, rather than a nod to what a fast eater I am.

  “How do you wind down?” He asks, continuing the conversation we were having before the waiter delivered our soup. He offers me a buttered piece of the baguette.

  I glance at the phallic loaf he’s pulling apart, and hold back a smile. Probably shouldn’t tell HR that sucking dick is one of my favorite ways to “blow” off steam, though thoughts of swirling my tongue around the head of his cock are definitely swirling through my head.

  “I sketch, journal, or binge a show on Netflix. I’ve tried mediating, but I can’t clear my mind. It’s always racing.” He opens his mouth, but I keep talking, anticipating what he’s about to say. “I know that’s the point of meditation, to calm the mind and stop the racing thoughts. I’m just not very good at it. I usually just give up and turn on a TV show I don’t have to think about, and that does the trick.”

  “I get it.” He nods. “I had that same problem, especially at first. Silence is not a good place when there’s so much going on up here.” He taps his temple. “I had to start with five-minute guided meditations.” He laughs. “I felt like an idiot at first, even when I did them by myself at home. But once I started feeling the calming effects and realized how much it helped, I got over it quick.”

  “Maybe you can teach me,” I say.

  “It’s kind of a solitary thing.”

  “I meant, guide me, for like, five minutes,” I say quickly, feeling like a tool. “It’s okay. I’m sure there’s an app I can download.” I rip off a piece of bread and pop in into my mouth—anything to shut me up.

  “I wasn’t saying no,” he says quickly. “I’ve just never had anyone ask me for help meditating before.” He runs a hand through his hair. “I can definitely guide you through.”

  “Yeah?”

  “You game for trying it out tonight? Maybe it’ll help you sleep?” he asks. Maybe it’s my imagination, but I swear his voice got a little deeper, a sexy, scratchy sound.

  My heart races. “I can spare five minutes,” I say breathlessly.

  Zayne’s gaze drops to our empty soup cups and the torn-up pieces of baguette, then back up to me. “Ready?”

  “Lead the way, Zen Master,” I tease. When I try to get up, my body resists and drop back down.

  “Are you okay?” he asks.

  “Yeah, I’m just exhausted.” I stretch both arms toward him. “Can I get a lift?”

  His eyes light up when he smiles. How did I not notice that before?

  He grabs my hands, yanking me to my feet easily. Then he turns his body slightly, offering me his back. “Piggyback ride?”

  I should decline. He already thinks of me as a child he’s here to babysit. Accepting his offer will seal that image.

  Fuck it.

  No one can resist a piggyback ride. I grab on to his shoulders and hoist myself up and onto his back. He accepts my weight with ease, hooking his arms under my thighs and propping me up higher for a better position. I lean down and wrap my arms around his neck, not tight, just enough to hold on. His body is lean and hard underneath me. I squeeze my legs around him wondering how the hell I’m going to calm my racing thoughts when we’re alone in my room.

  Zayne uses my toe to press the up button on the wall. At first, I think it’s just going to be us, but four older women in matching purple dresses and red hats slide in just before the doors close. I’m still hooked onto Zayne’s back and have no intention of getting dow
n until we get to my room despite the dirty look I’m getting from one of the ladies.

  “Can’t you go any faster, Seabiscuit?” I ask, kicking Zayne’s outer thigh with my heel.

  “I’m so glad you don’t have spurs on,” he answers. That gets a laugh out of two of the four. Of course, they laugh when the hot horseman speaks.

  “Everyone should have a ride like this, eh ladies?” I wink at our reflection in the doors.

  Nothing.

  Thankfully, the uniformed party animals file out when the elevator stops at the eighth floor. Since there’s no one else to make uncomfortable, I hop off Zayne’s back. I’m not very heavy, but he’s been hunched over, and that can’t be good for his balance.

  He straightens up and lifts his arms over his head. As he’s arching his back and tilting side to side, the elevator dings and the doors open up to the lobby.

  “What the heck?” I ask peeking out and looking side to side.

  “Did you press a floor when we got on?” he asks.

  “I thought you did.”

  Zayne presses a button and the doors close.

  “That must be why the ladies didn’t laugh at me.”

  “That’s gotta be it.”

  Zayne follows me to my room, waiting as I hold the key card in front of the reader. “Make yourself comfortable,” I say, allowing him to enter first.

  He follows directions like a champ because when we enter, he settles at the foot of my bed.

  “It’s immaculate in here,” he says looking around the room in wonder.

  “Thank you?”

  We’ve been here for a week, so I suppose many people would have things strewn across the room. But I’m used to living out of a suitcase. After I moved out of my parent’s house, I lived with my friend Kelsey’s family for a few months until I could find a place with some friends who were old enough to rent a house. Though she offered, I always declined when she asked if I wanted a drawer. I always felt terrible taking up space in her room. I didn’t want to be any more of an inconvenience for her.

  “That was rude,” Zayne apologies. “I’m sorry. I’ve just never seen someone who had everything so organized. Usually, clothes and shoes are everywhere, or makeup products.”

  I grab my pajamas from under my pillow and nod to the bathroom. “I’m gonna ignore your sexist comment and go get changed.”

  “It wasn’t meant to be sexist,” Zayne calls after me.

  I shut the door without responding. Then spend the next minute, sweeping all the products off the counter and into my toiletry bag. Keeping my clothes neat makes sense because that’s how I keep track of what’s clean and what outfits I still have left to wear. My bathroom is another story—it’s a wreck. There’s no reason to put my makeup and hair products away every time because I use them multiple times a day.

  When I join Zayne in the room again, I’m wearing a black tank top and matching yoga pants. It’s as comfy as I can be without being completely naked, which is how I sleep. Not sure how Zayne would react if I came out in my birthday suit, though.

  Trying to keep it PG around him despite the delicious swirling in my stomach whenever we’re together.

  “Ready?” he asks, getting straight to business.

  “Yup. What should I do?” I rest my hands on my hips and shift my hips side to side, loosening up while waiting for him to tell me what do to. I glance at the bed, thinking about how much I’d like to hear him tell me what to do there.

  He jumps up and gestures to the bed. “Why don’t you, uh, lay down.”

  Zayne seems nervous, which is not typical of the personality I’ve seen over the last two weeks. “What kind of meditation is this?” I ask raising my eyebrows suggestively.

  “I just thought you’d want to be comfortable. Would you rather sit in easy pose?”

  I’m one second away from tackling him onto the bed, and he’s seriously talking meditation. “Easy pose?”

  “On the floor with your legs crossed at the shins?”

  “Oh! That’s what that’s called? I thought it was crisscross apple sauce.”

  “It is for toddlers.” He laughs.

  “This mediation isn’t starting off very relaxing.”

  Zayne let’s out a deep, frustrated sigh.

  “Have we started?” I ask, just to be a jackass.

  “Lay down and close your eyes,” he commands. I scurry onto the bed and get on my back, letting my feet fall open and my arms relax next to me.

  “Let’s start with breathing. Inhale.”

  Closing my eyes, I join his deep inhale and exhale when he directs me to. We do that five more times, and I feel the tension leaving my shoulders, though my mind is still racing. I’d feel much more relaxed if Zayne would lay down instead of loom over me like a drill sergeant.

  Scratch that. My mind would be racing for different reasons if Zayne were lying next to me on the bed. Especially after seeing him handle that car at ridiculously high speeds earlier. That was sexy as fuck. Talk about the perfect foreplay. I wouldn’t be surprised if the next time I smell burning rubber, it triggers an instant orgasm. Between that smell and the memory of Zayne behind the wheel, I should have plenty of material for taking care of myself for the rest of this trip.

  Suddenly, I don’t hear Zayne’s voice anymore, so I open my eyes. It’s pitch-black and I’m alone in my room. Disoriented, I glance at the clock.

  4:47 am.

  Zayne’s voice relaxed me to sleep.

  I can’t say that has ever happened before. Normally, it’s hard for me to let my guard down around when I’m alone with men in an intimate setting. Fozzie is the only guy I’ve ever felt comfortable enough to fall asleep around. But he barely talks, so it’s not like his voice has ever lulled me to slumber. Zayne’s silky, smooth voice does things to me that Fozzie’s never could.

  When I found out Zayne would be going on this trip with me instead of Louis, I can honestly say I was disappointed. Trading one of the tattoo industries’ most well-known personalities for an HR suit seemed like a huge loss. But I trust that Louis wouldn’t have chosen someone shitty to replace him. Zayne’s been in the industry for years, so the shop owners we’ve met with know him and like him. When he’s out, he’s funny and charming. When we’re alone (and not at each other’s throats), we’ve had a ton of flirty banter and gotten closer by the day. And that story about how he uses his car and track membership blew my mind. Not at all what I was expecting.

  It’s hard for me to put into words how being around Zayne makes me feel now. My body hums like there’s a constant electric connection between us. That’s where the confusion comes in. The sizzling vibe has my heads in the clouds, while still keeping me grounded with a sense of calm. I feel completely comfortable being myself around him; sarcastic, silly, silent—he rolls with it all.

  Over the last two weeks, I’ve gotten to see many facets of his personality, but I don’t really know him. His soccer career seems to be off limits, because he always changes the subject when I try getting him to open up about it. Now that we’ve got the pettiness out of the way, and we understand each other better, maybe there’s a chance for a real friendship to blossom.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Zayne

  If someone ever wrote a book about Emily and me, the title could be Cabin Confessionals, because even though we drive to and from work together every day, the cabins of airplanes are where we have the most intense conversations.

  I doubt today’s flight from Chicago to New York will be any different. Especially since I’m about to blow her mind—but hopefully not embarrass her—when I tell her I’m not just an HR dude at Ambassador Ink.

  After securing my seatbelt, I turn to Emily and say, “I’m really sorry for how I acted at the track.”

  “What?” Emily asks, looking up from her phone. We haven’t left the gate yet, so it must be okay for air traffic control signals.

  “I’m ashamed about the way I chose to tell you about why I have my car and how
it’s used. It was mean and uncalled for to try to make you feel bad just to prove a stupid point. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t worry about it, Zayne.” She waves her hand. “You took me on a really fun, cool experience, and instead of being grateful, I was a judgy asshole. I doubt you would have explained the way you did if I hadn’t come at you first.”

  “True.” I nod.

  She punches my arm playfully, and we both laugh.

  “I am grateful, though,” she says, sliding her hand into mine. It’s such a simple act, but it says a lot about her maturity and her capacity for forgiveness. Sure, we had a row yesterday, but she’s not giving me the silent treatment or holding a grudge like she did that first week in Philly. It’s refreshing because even I’m not that mature sometimes. I hold onto things a lot longer than I need to. I’m fairly chill with other people, but I have a huge issue with forgiving myself.

  “I have a confession,” I begin. “I think you have the wrong idea about me, so I want to set the record straight.” She quickly pulls her hand back and retreats, looking at me with wide, frightened eyes, as if I’m about to tell her I have a girlfriend or call her out for crossing a line.

  I immediately take her hand and intertwine my fingers with hers. “It’s nothing like that, Em,” I assure her.

  “You called me ‘HR’ yesterday—"

  “’HR prick,’” Emily corrects me with a smile and squeeze.

  “That’s right.” I roll my eyes. “I don’t know who told you I was in HR at Ambassador, but I’m not. I own Ambassador Ink.”

  “What’s the joke?” Emily blinks, then her lips slide into a grin. “We both know Louis Vitale owns Ambassador Ink.”

  “Yeah, he does, with me—Zayne Vitale—his brother.”

  “Shut the front door!” She exclaims, squeezing my hand. “You two are brothers?”

  “You don’t have to sound so surprised,” I say.

  “I’m—Holy shit!” Her eyes are wide as if she can’t believe it. “I feel like such a fucking dumbass!”