8. One Foot in the Door
Chapter 8
One Foot in the Door
Rafe
“When are you submitting your entry?”
“I’m not.”
“Raf-aniel … Rafe-stopher …”
I shake my head, but Leo can’t see it over the phone, so I grumble instead.
“I’ve got a thousand other things to worry about right now,” I respond, circling around my shop’s front counter and counting receipts from today. The front door is locked, and moonlight filters through, reflecting off the laminate hardwood. “And your competition isn’t one of them.”
“I thought you were our number one fan?”
“Screw you.”
Leo laughs.
He’s right though; I’ve been a fan of Howling Ravens since they started making music out of his garage in high school. I’ve made countless posters for his band over the years. I only want them to succeed, but they need a different look now. Leave it to Leo to open a design competition to create their official merch and insist I submit anyway.
Leo is the most caring, trustworthy, motivated person I know. But he’s also an asshole. He will always find a way to get what he wants. Leo is a flawed person, but I’ll never judge someone for not being perfect.
“Listen, we’re coming to town in a few weeks,” he continues. I can hear a gulp and smack of his lips. The clock on my shop wall reads ten o’clock. He must be about to start a gig. Alcohol has always soothed his nerves. “T only likes to stay in places for one night, so we won’t be there long.”
“No time for fun, huh?”
“She’s a total workhorse,” Leo says.
“Bother you?”
“Hell no. There’s a reason she’s top of the top.”
Teagan—or Cut to a T—is the top name in punk rock right now. The Howling Ravens are opening for her during her US tour. Leo’s a lot of things, but a misogynist isn’t one of them. I bet he’d worship at her feet if she let him.
“Where are you playing? Boston?”
“Yeah. Wish I had time to stop by home. Haven’t been in a while. Plus, you know me. If I can drop in on Peggy Cohen, I’ll always take the chance.”
Leo loves my mom. My mom loves Leo. It’s hard to get a word in when they get together.
Mom used to say, “If I were twenty years younger …” and he’d eat it up every time.
I take it back.
I judge Leo.
“You seen her lately?” Leo asks.
Suddenly, unease expands in my chest. “It’s, uh, been a bit.”
Leo sniffs, and I can hear him pacing. A hum of voices is behind him.
All he says is, “Good.”
“Good?”
“I love your mom. You know I do. But you needed to leave. Going to Never Harbor was the best thing for you. Space is good.”
I never had a brother, but Leo’s as close as it gets. I don’t like when he tries to pull the sentimental card though.
“So, Boston?” I ask.
He laughs. “You’re just gonna storm past that?”
“What day?”
Leo chuckles. “Sure, we’ll soar past it. It’s, uh”—he pauses, as if checking a calendar—“yeah, in a month or so. Want me to comp you and Blondie a ticket?”
I’d like to say yes. I haven’t seen Leo and the guys in too long, and I know Izzy likes any trip she can get into Boston, even if it does mean seeing Leo. But as I look around the shop with its gaps on the walls and still-unpacked prints, I sigh.
“I don’t know, man,” I say, running a palm through my hair. “I’m drowning in work.”
“I thought your shop was booming?”
I flick up the cash register’s clip and tuck the receipts under. “It is. So, I gotta make more art to sell.” I push it in, and the drawer rings closed, echoing through an empty Ink & Tide. “That’s the whole point of owning an art shop.”
“When’s it ever enough?” he asks.
“What do you mean?”
“I meannn”—he draws out the word playfully—“what’s your end goal?”
“Success.”
“To what? When?”
I freeze, hovering my palm over the register. My mind buzzes. Something akin to dread filters down my spine. I don’t like it.
I click my tongue. “Leo, I don’t …”
Suddenly, he barks out a laugh. “I’m kidding! Dude, I’m just kidding. Don’t be so serious.”
His laugh echoes in my ear for a moment, but is interrupted by a small knocking on my shop’s door. It’s well past closing time. Most shops on Main are locked up for the night.
I squint to see out the window, but with it being this late, I only see my reflection staring back. That is, until a flash of red hair leans closer, and a delicate, freckled hand reaches up to wave.
My hand tightens on the edge of the counter.
I swear Bonnie Davies is haunting me. If I wasn’t on the phone with Leo, I’d imagine I was sleeping. Because, in my dreams lately, Bonnie knocks, and I always open the door.
Every time.
What happens after that is not exactly something I want to think about with Leo on the line.
I like Bonnie—and not just because of how soft she felt in my palms. I like the way she smiles at me, as if I haven’t done a damn thing wrong. As if I’m not a problem in her life.
Yet .
“I’m gonna need to call you back,” I say over the phone.
“Cool,” Leo says. “I gotta hop onstage soon anyway. I’ll text you when we’re in town.”
“Sounds good.” My words feel distant.
I can’t tell if the ringing in my ear is from the tone, indicating Leo hung up, or if I’m stunned to eerie silence at the sight of Bonnie’s full, parted red lips in the window, mouthing, Can we talk?
I don’t think before I move toward the door. The whines under my boots, squeaking over hardwood, taunt me.
IRRespONsible, they croon. IRResponSIble.
I do think about the fact that the sun is down and she’s here. Again. That the last time she was here was under different circumstances. That Awake Me is gonna make the same decision Dream Me does.
I unlock the dead bolt and open the creaking front door. I’m greeted by blinking eyelashes and flushed cheeks.
“What are you doing here, Shiv?”
“We need to talk.”
I open my mouth to respond, but words don’t come out. The last thing I need is to talk with her more. It won’t erase the pain of being the man who took her virginity. It won’t ease the way my hands ache at the sight of her—wanting to take again and again. It won’t stop the magnetism between us.
“We shouldn’t?—”
She exhales irritatingly. “I need to talk to you, Rafe.”
Her brown eyes have that look of determination that got me in trouble in the first place. But I’m not gonna leave her out on the street. The woman needs to talk, and I can’t blame her. She probably needs some closure. Hell, so do I, if my dreams are any indication.
I exhale, look side to side on the street, where only a whisper of the night drifts down the sidewalk. I open the door just wide enough for her to slide in. She does, her shoulder bumping against my chest as she passes. Coconut shampoo. It’s too familiar.
I lock the dead bolt and shut the blinds. When I turn around, her arms are crossed over her chest, but she isn’t confident, like she was a few days ago. She’s practically folding in on herself. Her red hair is fanned out like fall leaves from her messy ponytail. Despite that—or maybe because of that—she looks like an art piece. I could brush oil paint strokes in dedication to this woman.
I cross my arms to mirror hers. “What do you want to talk about?”
“I need to be honest with you.”
“Okay.”
She’s nervous. This is a different Bonnie from the other night, where she was all confidence and nothing else.
“I’m …” She sighs, drops her arms, then straightens her spine. “Everyone else assumes I’m doing well, and only you seem to see what’s going on under the surface.”
“Okay …”
“And I like how that feels.”
I sigh. “Bon …”
She swallows. “I’ve always fought for what I want, and I want this.”
Damn it. I shouldn’t have let her in. This was a mistake, and I should have seen it a mile away.
I tighten my crossed arms and shake my head. “Christ, Bon, we’ve talked about?—”
“An internship,” she interrupts. “I want an internship.”
I freeze and repeat her words back. “An internship.”
“Yes, a job. Whatever you have to offer.”
Silence and our blinking gazes pass between us, like we’re each trying to read the other. Her jaw is set. Her irises are a simple dot. It’s determination in her gaze, nothing else. Not even the flush of attraction.
“No luck with applications?” I ask.
“None.”
“But your art?—”
“Apparently isn’t cutting it,” she finishes. After a beat of my staring, she sighs. “Please don’t look so surprised.”
But I am surprised.
Bonnie has always had a real eye for illustration. Her work was always seen around town in the form of flyers or decor at The Hideaway. Izzy boasted about her work, but she didn’t need to. Bonnie had talent. There was no denying that. How she isn’t thriving at college is beyond me.
“I’m not sure what I could teach you that your professors can’t,” I say.
“You have an eye for things.”
I huff out a laugh. And here I was, just thinking the same thing about her …
But it doesn’t matter how in tune we are or how talented she is. Having her here all summer, looking cute with summer freckles? Absolutely a terrible idea.
I shake my head and come up with any excuse I can. “Look, working here isn’t easy?—”
“Shut up,” she interrupts.
My head jerks back, but Bonnie stands stiffly in place.
Her eyes close in frustration. “I’m not a naive girl anymore, Rafe. I’m not helpless. I’m a hard worker. I’m not intimidated by tourists or you. But I do need someone to tell me what the heck I’m doing wrong. You wouldn’t be afraid to tell me where I was messing up. Something isn’t clicking, and I don’t know what, but I’ll never know if I don’t have someone to help me through. I can’t flunk out. I can’t do that to my mom. And I’m getting no answers and?—”
“You’ve got the internship,” I blurt out.
Bonnie blinks at me. My chest heaves with a breath caught in my throat.
Did I just say that?
I spoke the words before I bothered to think them through.
What the absolute hell just left my mouth?
“I do?” she asks.
No. Absolutely not. I’m not having the woman who I mistakenly slept with—and it was a mistake—work for me for three whole months. She’d be my employee. I’d be a mentor, damn it. A mentor who knew exactly how amazing she felt, riding my dick.
“Of course you do,” I continue as I also internally scream. What the fuck am I doing? “I’d be stupid not to have you as my intern with your level of talent.”
Actually, I’d be stupid to hire her, but that’s beside the point. The fact is, I can’t see this talented woman believe she’s anything less. I can’t do it. The way her eyebrows turned in. The way she shrank so easily. It’s not her.
“Oh.”
She’s stunned. Hell, I’m stunned.
I’m standing across from her with tightly crossed arms and what feels like a scowl on my face.
My heartbeat erratically pulses through me as I choke out, “Sound good?”
“Yeah … sounds …” She swallows, still blinking. She seems surprised this is happening too. “Sounds great.”
“Good.” I look at the wall behind her—anywhere but at her. “Then, I’ll see you on Monday.”
“Oh,” she repeats again. The word takes on new meaning each time she says it.
Oh , you think I’m a good artist. Oh , we’re gonna be working together.
“Next week?”
“I gotta clean up the store a bit. Get my head together.”
In more ways than one.
“I’ll … see you then, I guess,” she says softly. “Should I bring anything?”
“We’ll figure that out together. I’ve never had an intern.”
Her brown eyes widen, and I know that was a mistake to admit.
“Oh. Never?” she asks.
Oh , you chose me out of everyone?
The moment I see her beautiful lips start to pull at the edges into a cute, freckled smile, I quickly add, “It was the right time, is all. I’m behind on work.”
I walk past her to the shop’s door, turn the dead bolt, and prop it open. The cool coastal wind drifts through in an unwelcome greeting. A cold, eerie sign of bad decisions.
She’s still blinking to herself as she shifts like a lost penguin through the threshold. She turns on her heel and says in an almost-wistful whisper, “I guess I was using you for your art.”
I meet her gaze, and the tease in her smile is enough to make my stiff heartbeat echo in my chest.
I huff out a laugh despite myself. “Guess you were.”
She walks back to her Jeep, parked right in front of my shop. I linger in the doorway until she drives off and disappears around the corner.
What the hell did I just do?