Reverse (Bittersweet Symphony Duet #2)

SEVENTEEN “Damn I Wish I Was Your Lover”

SEVENTEEN

“Damn I Wish I Was Your Lover”

Sophie B Hawkins

Natalie

E xiting the hotel, I catch sight of Easton leaning next to the passenger door of his truck. As I draw near, I’m struck stupid by the sight of him—dark brown leather boots crossed at his ankles, whitewashed fitted jeans, and a form-fitting, buttoned flannel accentuating his lean, muscular build. His thick, chin-length raven locks are partially tucked behind one ear. The rest cradles his jawline pulling attention to his naturally stained, crimson lips.

Dear God, please make it stop.

His current look battering my libido, I can’t help but be happy about the extra effort I put into my own appearance today. After waking refreshed from a coma-worthy twelve hours of sleep, I ate a breakfast fit for a queen. Finding myself with a few hours to spare, I ordered a car and took a little trip to Pike Place Market. I explored the tourist destination before dipping into a boutique and treating myself to a sexy, low-cut halter sweater that accentuates my cleavage and bares a few inches of my midriff. I’ve paired it with skintight dark pleather pants and black suede ankle boots. After a long, steamy, life-altering shower, I left my hair curly, despite my temptation to straighten it, and managed to tame it in large ringlets. Keeping my makeup clean—knowing my expensive gloss was en route to a nearby dump—I settled on a matte nude. It’s not at all lost on me that every effort I made on my look coincides with his preferences. The appreciation for said effort shines clear in his eyes as I stalk toward him. At the last minute, I slipped on his oversized jacket, and that finishing touch is where his gaze lingers longest.

Hastening toward him, I can’t help the gradual lift of my lips with every step as his eyes again sweep me, holding on the bare skin of my stomach before trailing back up.

“Hi,” I beam at him as he opens the passenger door for me.

“You slept,” is his reply as I slip into the truck, inhaling his heavenly sage and woods scent.

“Like a rock, finally , and I feel amazing,” I glance over at him as I settle in.

“It shows,” he replies low, closing me into the cab. My eyes follow him in the sideview, his natural swagger in full effect as he rounds his truck bed. As he eases into his seat, nervous energy engulfs me. Though it can’t be, this feels everything like a date.

Easton unlocks and hands me his cellphone to play DJ, in time with the routine we’ve established in just a few days of knowing each other. Though I’m still a bit surprised he picked me up today as promised, considering he’s had time to absorb the full extent of my deception.

“So, you still don’t hate me?” I ask, taking his extended phone.

“No,” he starts his truck, “I think you’re punishing yourself enough.” He glances over at me, a smile flirting along his lips. “But since we both know you’re currently a danger to yourself and others if you’re alone with your thoughts, you’re going to run an errand with me today.”

“That’s a dramatic assessment.”

He raises his brows.

“Okay, so there may be a small amount of truth to that.” I laugh lightly, and he gives me another whisper of a smile as he puts the truck into gear. Aside from humiliating myself unintentionally, and publicly for his amusement, I wonder what it takes to get Easton Crowne fully animated.

“What errands are we talking about? We know you’re all stocked up on condoms,” I jab, flicking his playlist exaggeratedly with my pointer as the tracks tick down the screen by the dozen before pressing play on a random song. It’s when I roll my window down halfway that I feel him pause on the other side of the truck and glance over. “What?”

He eyes my hand on the knob of the window, which mirrors the current position of his own hand, and shakes his head in reply. As he pulls out of the parking lot, I fill him in on my morning activities.

“You’ll be happy to know I’m a full-fledged tourist now, Mr. Crowne. I watched the tossing of the fish at Pike’s Market and even visited the saliva-infested bubble gum wall, and before you ask—no, I didn’t add to it. I was a little grossed out by it.”

Though Easton remains quiet while I fill him in, his expression reeks of amusement from my ramblings before we fall into a comfortable, but music-filled silence. Not long after, we pull up in front of a glass storefront, and I draw my brows. “A tattoo is an errand?”

Easton wordlessly exits his truck and gathers me from my side with an offered hand before pulling me to the entrance. On his heels when he steps inside, he releases my hand before lifting his chin to a man running a tattoo gun. His subject is a twenty-something woman propped on a leather table that sits a few feet behind a small reception desk.

“Hey man, almost done here.” The tattoo artist’s eyes drift to mine. “And who is this pretty kitty you dragged in?”

“A friend,” Easton replies simply. This time, I’m the one who lifts a brow his way.

He gives me a dead stare. “Shut up.”

“So, we’re going A-side Easton today?”

Ignoring me, he sits in one of the nearby lobby chairs as I scan the parlor. In short summary, it’s clean and modern and looks more like a posh gentlemen’s club rather than a tattoo parlor. A sleek counter-height bar sits in the far-left corner, craft beer nozzles ready to pour and pint glasses stacked next to them. Next to it sits a glass refrigerator full of everything imaginable to wet a dry tongue. The furniture at the stations throughout consists of rich, expensive looking leather with chrome touches.

The lobby houses several matching chairs, the walls lined with digital displays that blink in and out with professional photos of completed projects. The finished product work atypical of what one might expect. I note as well there are no drawings on display to choose from for basic, uninspired tattoos. It’s obvious this isn’t the place to come without a clear idea of what you want. This parlor appears to be the crème de la crème of spots to get inked. From the digital signatures on the bottom of those displayed, it seems only three artists work here. Behind the guy currently running his gun, neither of the other chairs are occupied.

Glancing back at the gallery, I question if I would ever permanently mark my skin or want to endure the pain in doing so. Sensing Easton’s eyes on me, I turn to see him scanning the fit of his jacket on my frame. I swear I see slight satisfaction in his eyes before he pulls his cell from his pocket and begins to tap the screen.

Looking beyond the reception desk when the gun stops buzzing, I eye the artist as he starts to tick off aftercare instructions to the highly attentive twenty-something staring up at him as he dresses her fresh ink in plastic wrap. From the look she’s giving him, she’d like a little more aftercare than what he’s offering—and I can’t blame her at all. Upon closer inspection, I note he’s gorgeous and . . . mammoth in size. His height is similar to Easton’s, at around six-foot-two, and his curly dirty blond hair is cropped short, a lock of it loosely swept over midnight blue eyes. His build is immaculate. Not only that, but he’s also dressed to kill in a dark red collared shirt and designer jeans.

With sleeves rolled up a few inches on his forearms, it’s easy to surmise both arms are covered in ink. What appears to be bold black feather tips peak along the side of his neck. He’s the gasp-worthy blond in contrast to Easton’s breath-stealing tall, dark, and strikingly handsome.

They sure do seem to make them pretty in Washington.

Smiling at the thought, I glance over at Easton to see his nostrils flaring in my direction before he darts his eyes back to his phone.

Guilt I shouldn’t feel for ogling another man threatens as I walk over and take a seat next to him. Easton’s posture remains rigid, which has me scrambling to get some semblance back of the comfortable dynamic that we’ve managed to easily find since we met. Unable to help it, I glance over as he types out a fast text. I only catch a part of it to see it’s an apology.

“If I’m interrupting your plans—”

“Fucking shameless,” he scolds, clicking his phone closed before pocketing it.

“Sorry, I’m sitting right here. I am press.”

“How could I forget?” He mutters dryly.

Feeling stung, I slide back farther into the seat. Apparently, there is some grudge here because there’s no way he’s jealous.

“Ready for you, man,” the artist says as the girl gathers her purse to exit, her eyes scouring Easton greedily when she catches sight of him. Standing, Easton smirks at her just as she pushes out of the door. A jealous heat blooms in my chest at the interaction. Still hovering above me, Easton glances down at me as the artist speaks up. “Got a chair for her back here.”

Sensing my budding contempt, Easton grips my hand and pulls me to stand, locking eyes with me as if daring me to protest, and I feel every bit of the jolt it evokes. Turning, he guides me behind the counter as the artist gestures toward an empty chair beside the table.

“How’s it going, G?” Easton greets.

“Good,” he replies with an easy grin and the lift of his chin before the two embrace in a brief hug and exchange back claps. As they do, G’s dark blue eyes focus on me.

“So, who do we have here?” A perfect white smile dazzles me as I beat Easton to the punch.

“Natalie. I was just admiring your work. It’s incredible .”

His receptive smile reaches his eyes. “Thanks, Natalie. My friends, and friends of my friends, call me G .”

“Okay, will do.” I say in reply. “Nice place you have here.”

“Thanks. Is that a hint of a Southern accent I detect?”

“You caught that, huh?”

He gives me an inch between tatted fingers. “Li’l bit, and it’s adorable.”

“Well, I’ll take it,” I grin at him. “I’m a proud southerner, but not to an obnoxious extent, I promise.”

“Tell me, Natalie, what is a sweet Southern belle like yourself doing with this asshole?”

“Trust me, I’m no belle.”

“She’s lying,” Easton mutters as we begin to talk over the other.

“She’s drowning in propriety—”

“Those are called manners, Mr. Blunt and Moody.”

“Pure as the driven fucking snow.” Easton quips.

“What am I doing with this asshole ?” I narrow my eyes at Easton. “Right now, I’m wondering the same thing.”

Easton turns and snaps at G. “Are we doing this or what?”

Amused by our back and forth, G grins my way. “Someone’s in a mood today.”

“Right?” I agree, widening my eyes as Easton’s nostrils flare in response, and G fails to hold in his chuckle.

“He’s got a nasty temper,” G reveals. “He can get downright street dog fight dirty at times.”

“Does he now? Interesting,” I muse as we both comically turn back to Easton, staring at him like parents expecting an explanation.

“Fuck off with that,” Easton snaps. Unphased, G palms Easton’s shoulder.

“Yes, darling, we’re doing this. Did you get what you needed?”

“Yeah, but I want it altered now, and it’s going to take a little sketching.” Easton retrieves his cell and presents a picture of the sculpture we conversed at the day we met.

“Ah, so there was a reason we were there,” I say, “and I didn’t see you take that.”

“Yeah? Well, did you see him take this?” G asks, thrusting the phone in my direction. Squinting to peer at the screen, I barely make out a black and white image of what looks like my silhouette. He must’ve snapped it while I was lost in thought, staring at the installation. Not a second later, Easton rips the phone from G’s hand.

“What was it?” I ask, feigning ignorance of what I saw as Easton glares at G, who’s chuckling at his discomfort. G somehow placates him with quick words I can’t decipher. Shortly after, the two begin conversing about the tattoo as I take my designated seat, grappling with the fact Easton took a photo of me within an hour of us meeting. Feeling Easton’s gaze dart my way, I avert mine and glance around the parlor as the flutter in my stomach intensifies.

As I contemplate the reasoning behind it, Easton and G stand at the sketch table at the station as G gets to work. In a matter of minutes, G produces a surreal-looking 3D likeness of a section of Chihuly’s sculpture. Several lone stalks of the red glass resembling lightning rods make up the whole of it. The difference is one prominently hovers over the top of the others, sweeping into a full loop before it breaches a few inches above the rest and shoots jaggedly upward.

It’s beautiful and . . . different.

G glances over at me as I study it. “This is just phase one,” he explains, “he’s got a lot planned for his virgin skin.”

“I don’t doubt it,” I reply. Eyes on the sketch, it saddens me that I’ll only be able to see the finished product in mixed media, and that’s only if Easton decides to release. Further contact with him after I take off tomorrow isn’t an option.

Eyes back on the sketch, I contemplate its meaning until I see Easton start to unbutton his shirt in my periphery. Instantly my attention shifts to his impeccable build and the memory of his heated eyes, his words, and the rest of our unspoken exchange last night. We’d come so close to crossing an uncrossable line. Panties soaked and breathless, I retreated straight to my room, tortured with what-if thoughts every second of the ride up the elevator and through a long soak in the tub. I woke this morning surprised but thankful sleep claimed me before my imagination got a chance to steal more much-needed rest.

Toeing the line again, I stare at his defined hard lines and feel the throb of want pulse through me as the need to flee threatens. Easton’s fingers slowly release each button, revealing more of what I’m in want of as G readies his supply cart. This is the second time in as many days I’ve had to endure the sight of this perfect man and his sculpted body, and the ask at this point is a bit much.

Mouth watering, I eye his belt briefly, picturing my fingers releasing the heavy buckle and the clank that would follow. The mere thought of the sound has my clit pulsating with terror as this unrelenting attraction rips through me. Panicking, I spring from my seat, my question coming out louder than intended.

“Bathroom?”

G grins at me, the twinkle in his eyes and the smug twist of lips letting me know he caught me as Easton discards his shirt and lifts his eyes to mine point-blank.

Bang.

Clearly, my prayers are going unanswered today, possibly because I’m committing heavily to one of the deadliest sins. Said sin coats me in a flooding shade of fresh red, and my damned neck flushes as G speaks up.

“In the back on the right. Extra TP under the cabinet if the roll is empty, and it usually is, so sorry in advance.”

“No problem, thank you.”

I march toward the bathroom as I berate myself.

WhatthefuckareyoudoingNatalieButler?

“Jesus help me,” I mutter behind the closed door of the bathroom, attempting to catch my breath. I realize I’m clutching my pint-sized travel purse to my chest like a human shield.

As if it would help.

My thoughts race for a solution to help me sidestep my increasing attraction for Easton Crowne as the answer boomerangs the second the question is released, hurtling back and bitch slapping me with truth.

Nothing.

Easton Crowne is a human masterpiece. He’s cruelly alluring looks-wise, and he’s got intelligence and depth to boot. He’s also insightful and warm, despite his frank way of speaking and his broody nature. Even after all he’s revealed, there still remains an air of mystery that’s only drawing this moth further into the flame. A flame I didn’t fully see until now, which is growing hotter by the second.

In short, Easton Crowne is the biggest threat to my well-being ever created.

“In my mind, I’ve already sunk inside you a thousand times.”

He wants to act on it, I want him to act on it, and there’s no way in hell that’s a possibility.

No way.

The upside to my current battle? In less than twenty-four hours, I’ll already be in the air, halfway to Austin, and he’ll no longer be a danger to me. Meeting him today—especially after my confession and our near-catastrophic flirtation last night—was a mistake. We should have parted there.

Instead, I dressed up for him, and now I’m obsessing in a fucking bathroom.

Who are you?

I blame the situation. I do not bow or blush for men, nor do I cower from attraction and hide from it in bathrooms. The man’s out of his damned mind comparing me to snow . I’ve roped and ridden my fair share. Not that the draw is comparable.

Simply put, it’s not.

Attraction aside, I can’t help the fact that I want to soak in every single second with him until I leave, even if we can’t act on it. He’s been one hell of a friend to me, and he’s being respectful of the line I’ve drawn, which makes me feel safe with him—to an extent. Images of him at the piano snake their way into my psyche as I repeatedly smack my head against the back of the door while Easton’s words filter through again.

“I’m also thinking you’ve never been properly kissed, fucked, or loved and that you caught a glimpse of something you want for yourself.”

Exhaling harshly, I make my way toward the vanity sink and give my reflection a pep talk. “Less than a day, woman. Get your shit in check. Right. Now. Butlers don’t back down. Seriously, he’s just a man. You can scratch the itch back in Austin.” I roll my eyes at my reflection, but even as I think it, and though Easton’s respecting the boundaries, his withdrawal from me when we got to the parlor has me sorting through the reason for it.

I haven’t said or done anything out of sorts. Nothing near as bad as what I confessed last night. Has his resentment grown? Is he masking some underlying contempt for me? Does he plan on toying with me? He’s more than capable, especially knowing I’m attracted to him.

If he’s planning on acting out, maybe getting even somehow, he’ll probably enjoy every second of watching me squirm. He’s probably enjoying the panic he no doubt saw back there. Determined to keep some of my self-respect, I flush the toilet to complete my ruse, wash my hands, and toss my shoulders back. It’s when I grip the bathroom handle of the door that realization dawns about the company we’re currently keeping.

My friends call me G.

Gi .

As in Benji First.

As in Ben —the son of the lead singer of the Dead Sergeants—and Lexi— Stella’s lifelong best friend and confidante’s— lovechild .

Oh fuck! Oh fuck! Oh fuck!

Racing from the bathroom back into the parlor to beg Easton not to disclose a single detail about me or my reasons for being here, I’m stopped short by the sight of Easton laying on the table, the purple outline of the sketch running from his hip bone to the top of his ribs. Buzzing gun in hand, Benji lifts his head when he spots me. “So, Easton tells me you’re from Texas, and your dad used to date my tía Stella.”

Fuck.