Chapter 11 Talon #2
A lot, she says. She has no idea how much I earn on a single job. "Does it make you happy?" I ask while the clerk rings it up.
"Well, yeah, but—"
"It's not too much." I look at her and shake my head.
"It's not. You're not too much. Got it?" Then I catch the girl behind the register sighing softly and giving Ainsley a discreet thumbs up and I know it was the right thing to say.
I want to tip the girl for doing that. There must be some way to show my appreciation.
She quiets down as we're leaving, and I can't say I'm sorry to load the books into the back of my car rather than carry them around. "All right." I pull out my phone again. "There are a few places around here you might like."
"Wait a second. What is that?" She stands on tiptoe to read over my arm. "Is that a list of things to do today?"
Shit. This is a little embarrassing. "Yeah. I made a list."
"But… why?"
"Why do you think?"
"I don't know. That's why I'm asking."
"What is it going to take to convince you for real? I meant it when I told you I don't do dating." I put air quotes around the word. "So, I made a list for myself of things we could do today. I wanted to be prepared instead of, you know, floundering around for ideas on the fly."
She sighs the way the girl back at the store did. "Oh," she whispers. "Thank you."
"You're welcome—and you're worth it," I add, reaching down to stroke her cheek with my thumb. God, how is she so damn soft? I'm starting to think she isn't real, which when I consider the effect she has on me would explain a lot of things.
Lunch takes place at the sort of restaurant I would normally pass by without giving a second thought.
The word trendy comes to mind, and I don't do trendy, but they're also supposed to have some of the best food in town according to the numerous reviews I skimmed through while Ainsley was trying to decide whether or not she should grab a third basket for yet more books.
"There's something here for everyone," I promise her on the way in, while she looks nothing if not overwhelmed.
I imagined a restaurant with a fun, offbeat vibe would be right up her alley—at first, I'm afraid I made a mistake.
Until she smiles once we step inside. "This place is cute. And it smells incredible." She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. "I'm starving."
We both are, judging by the way we wolf down our personal pizzas, breadsticks, and the large salad we share. "So good," she manages to moan between bites. I don't even mind that her breath will definitely reek of garlic after this. Hell, so will mine.
And I'm loving every minute of it, because she is. Call me a greedy bastard, but I want more of this. More of her happiness, more of her delight. More of her. When a guy wearing a polo shirt with the name of the restaurant embroidered on the chest glances her way as he passes by, a growl rumbles in my throat before I remind myself he works here and is only checking to make sure we don’t need anything.
Either that, or he’s distracted by the sight of her cardigan, which happens to feature a cat playing with a ball of yarn. It is rather eye-catching.
This is me, for the rest of my life. Wanting to kick the shit out of anybody who happens to glance her way.
When I check in with myself, I find the idea doesn't bother me at all.
Protecting her, making sure she knows every single day, in no uncertain terms, that she is the most precious thing in my world.
Yes, I can imagine that clearly, and I can hardly wait for the rest of my life to get here. Who the hell am I?
I'm the kind of sap who gets an idea while approaching a tattoo parlor as we walk off some of our heavy meal. "What about a tattoo?" I ask on a whim, turning away from the sign above the door to find her gaping at me with her mouth hanging open.
"No way," she replies, giggling while she shakes her head. "I couldn't."
"Why not?"
"I don't know." Like magic, I watch as she starts to close in on herself. Arms folding, shoulders hunching. "It's just not the kind of thing…"
"Do you actually want one?" I ask before she can finish shutting down the idea.
"I'm not saying you have to get a full sleeve or even anything anyone else will see.
There must be a little something. I'll even get one," I add, reaching out, taking her hand.
"I'm not trying to force you into anything you don't want, but I've seen the way you eye my ink.
You should get one for yourself. Just for you, anything you want. "
Those are the magic words, the words that make a light leap in her eyes. "Anything I want?" she asks, eyeing the shop window, skeptical, but intrigued now.
"Anything at all. What about the cat?" I ask on a whim. "I've never seen anyone as attached to a cat as you are to Klaus."
"I definitely am," she confirms, chewing her lip. It's obvious she wants to do this. She just needs permission. Eventually, I'm going to train her out of that. "And I have about a million pictures of him in my phone for reference."
That doesn't surprise me. "Then let's do it."
"What are you going to get?" she asks as I lead her to the door.
"You'll see." That's as much as I tell her before we step inside, and soon the shop owner is walking her through the process.
It's obvious she's overwhelmed, but she's handling it well, looking through photos of past work, asking questions about how to keep up with caring for the finished piece once she's home.
"Something small," she decides. "I would love to have my cat on my ankle.
So he'll always be there, and all I have to do is look down and see him.
" Her innocence is damn near enough to take my breath away.
How is it that someone who has been knocked down and belittled again and again can come out of that with such a pure, open heart?
I'm thinking about that as I settle in to have my own work done. I don't need to ponder my choice. I only need to spell Ainsley's name for the artist to create the stencil, then unbutton my shirt and point to where I want it placed.
By the time we're finished, Ainsley is giggling, admiring the work. "It's so cute! Just as cute as the real version," she gushes, holding her leg out so she can admire her cat's likeness.
Yes, somehow, they managed to capture his personality.
I've never known anyone who wants an image of a grumpy cat on their ankle, but then I've never met anyone like the girl beaming up at me in total delight.
"Thank you," she whispers. "I never would've thought to do this on my own, but I'm so glad I did. "
She will never know what it means to hear that. I couldn't put it into words if I tried forever. "I'm glad you're happy," I tell her, even though that doesn't begin to cover the truth.
"Let me see yours!" She's feeling playful as she tugs at my shirt once I finish paying. "Why won't you show me?"
Because it's not the kind of thing I want to show off while we're in front of other people. She can't know that, though, because she hasn't seen it. "You really want to see?" I ask.
"Yes, of course I do!"
"All right…" Once we step outside, I unbutton my shirt enough so she can see what now sits on my chest. Her name, tucked inside a heart. "Now, you're always here," I murmur while she stares, open-mouthed, and I'm honestly not sure if she's happy or horrified.
That is, until she looks up at me with tears in her eyes. "I can't believe you did that."
"You still don't believe me? Where else do I need to have your name tattooed?
" I mean it as a joke, but she doesn't smile.
"I mean it, Ainsley," I whisper, taking her face in my hands.
"My heart belongs to you. Only you, forever.
There's nothing I can do about it, not that I want to. I want you here. Forever."
"Me? You're sure?" She wants me to be. My God, I see it written all over her face when she looks up at me with those tear-filled eyes and a smile that wants to take shape. It's fear that holds her back. Like a poor, old dog that's been mistreated too many times and is afraid to trust now.
She'll never have to wonder again whether or not she can trust. That much, I'm sure of. "Do you like the work?" I ask while she continues to stare.
"It's beautiful," she whispers shakily. "Very."
"Not half as beautiful as what I'm looking at." Taking her by her waist, I pull her closer. It doesn't matter to me who sees us—I hope the entire world watches as I lower my head, catching her luscious mouth and claiming it for myself.
Mine. She’s mine. Nobody else’s.
And when she melts against me, arms winding around my neck, I know she feels it, too.