She sidled out from behind the screen, fully clothed. He didn’t know if he should boo or cheer. She was wearing thick tracksuit bottoms and a huge, woolly jumper. Her feet were covered by fluffy, blue bed socks, and she was gathering her hair into a sloppy ponytail. She’d taken her glasses off for some reason, so she was squinting as she looked at him. And holy shit, she was beautiful.
“Do you want something to eat—?”
He crossed the room in two steps and took her in his arms. She had just enough time to let out a squeak of surprise before he brought his lips to hers.
The need burning in his gut was fierce, but he forced himself to be gentle. She felt so soft; he didn’t want to scare her. That was the last thing he wanted. And the way he felt right now was almost enough to scare him.
But God, this felt so fucking right. He feathered his lips across hers, once, twice, three times. Like falling snow. She let out quick little exhalations, and they tasted so sweet as they crossed his lips, dancing over his tongue. He slipped a hand behind her head, lost his fingers in the maze of her hair, and then—there. She softened. She melted.
For him.
Her hands came to his shoulders, light as butterflies. Fluttering, fluttering, nervously, until he pressed his mouth more firmly to hers, and then she moaned and held him tight, and he thought for the very first time that she might need him the way he needed her.
Fuck. Fuck. Her kiss was like a drug, and his heart rate was through the fucking roof, and was he really touching a woman like Bailey—a woman he wasn’t prepared to let go, a woman he could never push away, a woman who wouldn’t play by any of his rules?
Everything about her felt perfect. Not flawless; just exactly as God or whoever the fuck had intended. Perfect. For him.
But she wasn’t for him. She couldn’t be. Because Cash had a bad feeling that attempting anything other than forever with this woman would do nothing but fuck with his head.
What the hell was he doing?
Suddenly terrified, Cash pulled away. He watched as Bailey returned to reality, her pretty face creasing with confusion. God only knew what his face looked like, because his insides were a nest of vipers right now.
“Cash?” She said softly.
“I…” He searched for some way to fix the mess he’d just made, to reverse the process he’d just started. To stop himself from falling.
Too late. Gravity didn’t work that way. And sometime in the last few minutes, this woman had become the centre of his solar system.
“I have to go,” he said.
“Cash.” Her voice hardened. “What the hell?”
“Your boiler’s fixed.” He turned to grab his tools, then abandoned the idea. No time for that. He had to leave. His mind frantic, he headed for the door.
“Don’t,” she said. “Don’t do this.” Her voice didn’t shake. He hadn’t expected it to. One thing he’d realised by now: this princess was hard as fucking nails.
But diamonds were tough, too. And still precious.
“Bailey. Don’t ask me to—”
“I’ve never asked anything of you and I don’t intend to start.” Her voice was sharp. “I’m telling you. Don’t do this.”
I won’t… I can’t ruin you,” he choked out, his back to her. His hand on the door. His heart in his mouth.
“There isn’t a man on earth who could ruin me.”
He believed her.
But obsession turned men into monsters.
“I’m leaving,” he said.
And then he did.
Chapter Eleven
At precisely 10:30 the next day, Gem burst into the foyer wearing a flashing Santa hat and a long, silver beard.
“Santa! Is! HERE!” She boomed.
Bailey looked up from the book she was reading, blinking at the spectacle before her. There was a moment of silence. And then she said, “Your beard is falling off.”
With a huff, Gem pulled down the elastic and let the long, silver curls hang around her neck. “The bloody thing’s too big for my face,” she griped.
“It looks better as chest hair anyway.”
“Shut up. You are now my elf! Insubordination will not be tolerated.”
With a resigned chuckle, Bailey slipped a pen between the pages of her book—Sister Mine—and pushed it aside. “I assume you have a task for me, then, Santa?”
“Indeed I do.” Gem took off her rucksack and plonked it on the desk. It was partially unzipped, a profusion of scarlet and gold tinsel spilling from its depths. “Today, we decorate the office!”
“Oh, Lord.”
“It’ll be just like this.” Gem swept her hand grandly about the room. “But better! Because I got more tinsel!”
The woman’s enthusiasm was almost enough to make Bailey forget the dark cloud hanging over her head. Almost, but not quite. “Um… Did you ask Cash about this?”
“No.” Gem shrugged. “He won’t care. He loves Christmas! Where is he, anyway?”
“He’s not in yet.” Thank God.
“Weird. Well, whatever. We can do it now! It’ll be a surprise. Come on!”
“I don’t think I should leave the phone…”
“It’ll be fine! If anyone calls they can just leave a message.” Gem skipped around the desk to grab Bailey’s hands, dragging her up. “Please, please, please?”
An unwilling smile curved Bailey’s lips. “Fine. But we have to be quick.”
“Yay!” Gem turned to scurry up the stairs, her beard bouncing and her rucksack emitting suspicious jangling sounds.
With friends like this, who had time to waste thinking about confusing, arsehole men? Or their wide, firm lips? Or the scruff of their stubble, or the heat of their big hands, or—
Oh.
Oops.
∞∞∞
Life was full of little blessings. For example: having a whole morning free the day after you fucked up your chances with the sexiest woman on earth.
The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away. Not always in that order.
Cash had planned on sleeping in, but his brain wasn’t down that with that idea. He hadn’t had a wink of sleep all night, and the sunrise didn’t make things any better; his mind was running like Usain Bolt on speed. Every time he closed his eyes, snapshots flashed up like something out of a film. Bailey. Bailey. Bailey.
He refused to draw her again.
But hanging around the house glaring at the furniture wasn’t helping the situation. He needed to know how she felt. If she’d be furious or cold. Sharp or dismissive. The anticipation of pain was always worse than the pain itself, right?
So he decided to go to work early. He could get some admin done, anyway. He was being responsible, really. And he didn’t have anything better to do.
Or anyone better to see.
But when Cash arrived at Fallen, his heart stuttering in his chest, he found the front desk empty. Suddenly terrified, he walked over, searching for some indication that Bailey had been here—that she was just out for an early lunch, or brunch, or some such nonsense—that she hadn’t abandoned him completely. That he hadn’t driven her away.
When he saw the book resting on the edge of the desk, he sighed with relief. Its cover was a psychedelic swirl of colour, interspersed with a guitar, a skull, and a pair of women who hovered like ghosts. He had no idea what the fuck it could possibly be about, but it was definitely the kind of thing Bailey would read.
Hope blooming from the wasteland in his chest, Cash headed up the stairs. She hadn’t left. She wouldn’t leave. He’d have a chance to fix this somehow—to take them back to the easy, unspoken attraction that had existed between them when she was just a barista and he was just a customer.
That old, simple sweetness had nothing on the memory of her lips beneath his. But it was a hell of a lot safer.
As Cash drew closer to the office, he heard voices: Gem’s babbling chatter, the kind that came out when she was truly comfortable and carefree; Steve’s wry mutterings, a little mor
e confident than usual; and finally, Bailey’s laughter. That was quickly becoming his favourite sound.
A grin spreading across his face, Cash pushed the door fully open and barrelled into the room.
Bailey was directly opposite him, facing the window, balanced precariously on his chair—his wheeled chair—as she wrapped a length of tinsel around the curtain pole. The chatter paused as Gem and Steve noticed his arrival, and the silence made her turn.
He knew exactly what would happen. He saw it all before his eyes like some kind of vision. And then, before he could do a damned thing about it, premonition became reality.
“Cash,” she said, the same way you might say, “Chlamydia?!” after the doctor read out your test results.
And then she faltered, and the chair wobbled, and her feet got caught up in the stream of scarlet tinsel, and she fell.
Cash dashed across the room, mounting his desk in a leap he barely felt, so that he was kneeling on the scarred wood when Bailey landed squarely in his arms. Her hip slammed into his gut with enough force to knock the air from his lungs, and her outstretched arm smacked him square in the face, knocking little shreds of tinsel loose from the bunch she held in her fist. One gleaming, gold piece wedged itself between his lashes, irritating the fuck out of his eye.
But all he could do was stare down at her face. She was panting, gazing up at him with parted lips, and he thought he saw that look again. The look that said, My hero. And he’d been ready to see Bailey pissed, or scathing, but not like this. He’d never be ready to see her like this.
His movements brisk, he pushed her off of his lap, holding her steady as she regained her feet. “You okay?” He asked tersely.
She nodded.
Cash blinked the tinsel out of his eyes and clambered awkwardly off the desk, glaring at nothing and no-one in particular.
Nobody spoke. Gem stared. Steve stared. Bailey looked firmly down at the floor. And Cash felt his temper flare.
“What the hell is going on in here?” He said tightly.
“We’re decorating,” Gem near-whispered.
Pinching the bridge of his nose, Cash took a deep breath. The last thing he’d ever do was shout at Gem for doing something he wanted her to do. But Jesus fucking Christ. His fury bubbling over, Cash turned on Steve.
“Why the fuck are you letting the girls climb on chairs?”
Steve held up his hands. “I wanted to help. But they wouldn’t let me.”
“We’re not children,” Bailey said, finally speaking. But her wide-eyed admiration was all gone. She was firmly back to disgust. “Steve doesn’t let us do anything.”
“Gem is an apprentice,” Cash said, clinging to the edge of his patience. “You are a receptionist. Steve is a senior artist. And half a foot taller than both of you.” He felt his voice rising to unacceptable levels; reigned it in; controlled the beast. His next breath felt like barbed wire dragged over raw skin. He took another. And another. When he spoke again, he sounded a hell of a lot calmer than he really was. “In future,” he ground out, “please use a stepladder.”
There was a pause. And then Gem said, clearly astonished: “We have a stepladder?”
With a groan, Cash threw up his hands and stalked out of the room.
So much for charming his way back into Bailey’s good graces.
Chapter Twelve
Bailey hunched over her book, her eyes tracing its words for the tenth time in as many minutes. Aside from a slight ache in her ankle, which she’d banged against the edge of Cash’s desk, she’d suffered little from her fall earlier in the day. The worst-bruised thing was her pride.
And, apparently, her concentration.
“Hey, you.”
She looked up to find Jay leaning against the front desk, his handsome face split into a grin. Great; she was supposed to be the receptionist, and she hadn’t noticed him standing a foot away from her damned face. Excellent. Amazing. Good work, Bailey.
“What are you reading?”
“Um…” She closed the book and held it out to him. “Sister Mine.” Not that the reading it part was going too well.
“Huh.” He turned it over to skim the blurb. “What’s it about?”
“Demi-God twins. One of them has magic, the other one doesn’t. The one without magic is being chased by a murderous spirit. And her sister is dating Jimi Hendrix’s guitar.” Jay didn’t bat an eyelid. “It’s set in Canada,” she added.
“Weird,” he said. He was studying the cover art with an expert eye. “This design is cool. It would work well for a tattoo.”
“Maybe.”
He handed the book back to her. “You don’t have any tatts, do you?”
“I might. Where you can’t see.”
“You don’t.” His voice was sure. “I can tell. You’re a virgin.” He waggled his eyebrows.
“Behave yourself,” she snorted. And then, warming to the topic: “I’ve been thinking about getting one for a while. I just don’t know what I’d get.”
“Your nan’s birthday,” he said dryly. “Universal starter tattoo.”
She chuckled. “Not exactly what I had in mind. I’d like to lose my virginity with more of a bang.”
And of course, at the worst possible moment, Cash appeared. He marched into the room with a scowl twisting the harsh lines of his face, the ink on his forearms shifting as he clenched his fists.
“What the hell are you two talking about?” He demanded.
Oh, crap. Bailey felt her cheeks heat—but Jay just slid an amused grin her way before turning lazily to face his boss. “Nothin’,” he drawled.
“Jay,” Cash said. His voice was rough as a mountaintop, hard as stone. Bailey thought she heard a thread of warning there—only that couldn’t be right. Could it?
The men stared each other down like cowboys before a duel. The tension ratcheted up with each breath of silence. And then, just as Bailey’s thoughts veered from confusion to concern, Jay broke out into laughter.
“Ah, come on man!” He cried, reaching forward to slap Cash on the shoulder. “I’m just fucking with you.” Cash’s face remained impassive, his broad frame unmoving. And yet, beneath his utter stillness, Bailey caught the impression of a rabid dog straining at the leash.
But Jay seemed blissfully unaware. He sauntered off into the studio, chuckling to himself, shaking his head. In the silence that remained, Bailey forced herself to meet Cash’s eyes. He watched her like a hawk watches a mouse.
“We were talking about tattoos,” she said, finally.
He shrugged those huge shoulders. “None of my business what you’re talking about.” He said gruffly. But she felt an urgent need to explain that… Well…
“I’m not a virgin.”
He stared blankly.
“I’m, y’know—a tattoo virgin.” She stretched her face into an awkward grin. “Haha!”
Cash didn’t laugh. “I know that,” he said.
“You do?”
“Of course.” He finally moved, walking across the shop to look out of the high windows and into the street. His back to her, he continued. “Not your style.”
She spluttered. “You don’t know my style.”
“Sure I do.”
“No you don’t,” she insisted. And then, reckless indignation giving her that final push, she blurted out, “Actually, I want a tattoo.”
He turned to look at her, arching a brow, and she fought the urge to squirm under the intensity of his gaze. “Do you, now?”
“Yes,” she said firmly. Maybe. Wait, no, definitely. Yeah. The last of her reservations dealt with, Bailey nodded so hard that her glasses slipped down her nose. Blushing, she nudged them back up into place.
Cash wondered over to the desk with an ease that didn’t quite match the fire burning in his eyes. When he rested his hands against the black wood, close enough to touch, she bit her lip. When he leaned forward, his long hair casting a shadow across her face, his lips close enough to bring back last night’s awkward—br
illiant, beautiful, magical—kiss, she gulped.
But she refused to look away.
“I didn’t think tattoos were your thing,” he said slowly.
She arched a brow. “I work here, don’t I?”
“Not exactly through choice.”
“If I didn’t want to be here, I wouldn’t be,” she said.
“Tattoos aren’t just about the thrill,” he went on. “Body mods are a pretty fucking heavy commitment.”
She gave his inked-up forearms a significant glance. “How ironic.”
He inhaled sharply. A muscle leapt in his jaw, and she knew her hit had landed. Good.
But then, through gritted teeth, he fought back. “Whatever you might think of me, tattoos are my life. I’ve been working to succeed in this industry since I was a teenager, and every piece of art on my body means something to me. Might be significant; might just be the memory of a good day. It’s enough, because I want them. Always. When times change, and even when I change, I want them.”
Bailey stared, more than a little shocked by that speech, and he stared back, as though he couldn’t believe he’d even said the words. As though he hadn’t meant to. As though his passion had leapt ahead of his reason.
That seemed to happen to him a lot.
She liked it.
“Alright,” she murmured. “I understand. But…I want one. I do. I want to—to commit to myself. For better or for worse.” She shrugged. “Does that make sense?”
He paused, as if to let the words ruminate. And then, finally, he relented. “Yeah. That does make sense.”
For some twisted reason, his approval sent a wave of satisfaction through her. He straightened up, turning to leave—but then he added, “I’ll do it.”
Bailey frowned. “What?”
“Your tattoo. I’ll do it.”
“Oh, no,” she spluttered. “That’s not what I meant. I just—wanted your advice. You can’t do it. You’re booked.”
“Don’t worry about that,” he said, as though his waiting list wasn’t months long.
“But—”
Merry Inkmas: A BWWM Romance Page 7