Chapter Ten #3
A crowd has gathered to watch the session. Despite myself, I wander closer. Caine spots me. With a lopsided grin that shouldn’t make my pulse spike the way it does, he asks, “You doing okay?”
“Yeah, I’m good.”
He nods. My fingers itch to fix a section of hair that’s flipped across his part, but I don’t.
“Can I get you something to drink? Or eat?” I nod at Hunter. “Either of you?”
Her sleepy smile makes me think of someone getting a massage, not a tattoo. “Water would be amazing, thank you.”
“I would love a Coke,” Caine says. “Please.” He tilts his head. I move closer, hoping that’s what he’s signaling. Voice so low I can barely hear it, he murmurs, “Sure you’re doing okay? I know there’s a lot going on.”
Touched, I smile. “I’m fine—thank you, though.”
Being this close to that rogue piece of hair is making me antsy.
“Can I fix your hair?”
His soft snort is amused. “Go for it.”
I carefully return the tendril to its proper place, then turn and walk away before he can see me blushing.
By the time I’ve returned with the drinks, Bee’s partner has arrived to help her, so there’s truly nothing for me to do.
Convincing Caine that it’s fine for me to make the trek from the convention center back to the hotel is a bit of a task, but he caves when I promise not to go anywhere but the small patch of grass where we walked Gremlin this morning.
“Horror rules,” he mutters under his breath, giving me a serious look.
“I highly doubt any villain has followed us here.” I smirk. “But I’ll be careful.”
And I am. I go back to the room, walk Gremlin, give her fresh water, and roll her tiny tennis ball around the hotel room for her until she’s tuckered out.
Back at the booth, Caine is stretching, and Hunter—and her friend, who I’ve learned is named Riley, and is the season three winner—are nowhere to be seen.
“Done for the day?”
He shakes his head. “Just a break.”
“How long can you tattoo someone for?”
Shrugging, he cracks his neck. “Depends on the person, tattoo placement, lots of variables.” Caine studies me. “Sure you’re good? Your energy feels different today.” He makes a swirl with his hand to emphasize the word energy.
“My energy is perfectly fine.”
Well, if ridiculously horny counts as fine. I give him a pointed look anyway. “Do you think I’m the suffer-in-silence type?”
A grin spreads across his face. “First time for everything.”
“You’re rude.” I can’t keep from smiling back, but I also can’t look away from him.
He’s a sunbeam personified, warmth I want to sink into.
Looking at him like this, admitting I was awake last night doesn’t seem daunting.
It feels like the most natural thing in the world to say, yes, I heard him, but I also needed time to process.
He’ll tease me, but he’ll get it, or at least not hold it against me—
“Ready, Caine?” Hunter’s voice fills the space where mine should be.
“Ready.” Does Caine sound resigned as he answers or is that only my wishful thinking?
In my head.
I move away from the chair, smiling at Hunter as she settles back in, unzipping her jacket.
I hate that I immediately feel like a giant in her presence.
I know all bodies are good bodies, and I would never think the critical things I think about myself about someone else who looks identical to me.
But I’m also self-aware enough to know that while I may not look like a moldy lawn gnome, no one will be asking me to be a face, hand, or anything else model for them, ever.
They will, however, ask me to grab things off the top shelf at the grocery store, so I suppose there’s that, at least.
“I’ll let you get back to it.”
Caine nods, already settling into work mode.
I entertain myself for a few minutes talking to Bee and poring over the work in her portfolios.
No matter how much I try to distract myself, it’s impossible not to passively eavesdrop on Hunter’s friend as she chatters away to Caine.
Everything I hear—she has a motorcycle, for fuck’s sake—only makes me feel more uncomfortable in my own skin.
No amount of telling myself that comparison is the thief of joy, and that someone else being great doesn’t make me less great, will shut up the asshole voice in my head.
I’ve gotten better at identifying and calling myself out on it with age, but I think the urge to compare myself to other women and find myself lacking will likely be something I work on the rest of my life.
While I’d love to blame it on Nicholas’s constant criticism, and the approval he kept me jumping for, my tendency for self-loathing was there long before him.
It’s in me, marrow deep, an heirloom passed down from my mother.
I don’t have the heart to be upset with her over it.
She inherited it from her mother, who probably received it from hers.
Okay, that’s enough of that.
Time to detour away from memory lane. Standing around with nothing to do but think isn’t what I need right now. Luckily, I’m surrounded by my preferred form of escapism: horror.