5. Evie
5
EVIE
Two weeks into working at Cross Brothers’ Ink Gallery, and I’ve learned three things about Rick Cross. He drinks his coffee black. He always loosens his tie at exactly six PM. And when he concentrates on paperwork, a muscle ticks in his jaw that makes me think thoughts I shouldn’t.
Tonight’s one of those nights. The gallery closed an hour ago, but quarterly taxes wait for no one. Not even motorcycle club members who moonlight as legitimate businessmen.
“These numbers from last week don’t match.” I tap the spreadsheet on my desk.
Rick appears in my doorway. Sleeves rolled up. “Show me.”
He moves behind my chair, and suddenly, breathing becomes complicated.
“Here.” I point to the discrepancy, hyperaware of his chest inches from my shoulder. “And here. Almost like there are two sets of books.”
His pause tells me everything. Of course there are two sets of books. The gallery might be legitimate, but The Den below us definitely operates in a grayer territory, even if they just claim it to be a high-end bar.
“Good catch.” His voice rumbles close to my ear. “I’ll handle those entries personally.”
In other words, stop looking too closely at certain numbers . Message received.
“It’s almost eight.” He straightens, putting blessed space between us. “You should head home. The girls will be waiting up for you.”
“Rose is watching them. And Owen came over to play as well. Trust me, they aren’t waiting up for me.”
“You and Rose must be pretty close.”
“We are. My girls and I would probably be dead if it weren’t for her.”
Rick clears his throat. Probably signaling that the conversation is going too far.
The pause is longer this time. “Still. No need to work late,” he finally says.
But he doesn’t leave my doorway. He just stands there, radiating heat and male presence, which are things I can’t think about. Not with his brother Zane’s flirting still ringing in my ears. Not with Chase’s eyes following me every time I pass his station.
“I’d rather finish this.” I turn back to the spreadsheets—boring numbers that don’t make my skin tingle.
He shrugs. “Your choice. I’ll be in my office if you need anything.”
I manage twenty minutes of actual work before my mind wanders. Rick’s nothing like his brothers. Where Zane flirts openly, and Chase always broods, Rick projects calm authority. It should be off-putting. Instead, it makes me want to see him lose control. Just once.
I know I’m playing with blazing fire, but I can’t help myself. Just like how I had to put on a show from my room all because I saw a shadow moving across the window in the Cross house, in the hope that anyone, someone, was watching me.
I take a deep breath and let my gaze wander as I take a stroll around the shop.
The gallery feels different after hours. It’s sort of quieter and more intimate. The tattoo stations sit silent. Chase’s latest designs are still pinned to his wall. The skull he drew last week grins at me like it knows my secrets.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I take it out and see that it’s a message from Rose: “You’re intentionally working late again. With which of them? Rick, this time?”
I frown, ignoring the text. Rose’s warnings about getting involved echo too loudly already.
Movement catches my eye. Rick passes my door, heading for the break room. His top button is undone. It’s unfair how a simple white shirt can look so good on a man.
The coffee maker gurgles to life. His voice drifts out. “Want a cup?”
“Trying to keep me here longer?” The words come out more flirtatious than intended.
“Last I checked, it was your choice, but I’m starting to like the company.”
Heat crawls up my neck. Rose will kill me. But god, after months of running and hiding, something about Rick Cross makes me want to stay still.
The coffee he brings is perfect—cream, no sugar.
“Thanks.” Our fingers brush during the handoff. Static electricity, I tell myself. Nothing more.
“The girls settling in okay?” He leans against a nearby desk, casual as can be. “Zane mentioned they seem to be getting along pretty well with Owen.”
“Yeah.” I smile despite myself. “Apparently, my four-year-old and your godson are inseparable now.”
“Owen’s got good taste.” His eyes lock on mine. “Must run in the family.”
The air shifts. Thickens. I should look away but can’t seem to remember how.
My phone saves me, buzzing again. Violet’s voice fills the office.
“Mama! Owen says he has a tree house! Can we build one?”
Rick’s expression softens at my daughter’s excitement. It transforms his whole face and makes him look younger.
“We’ll see, but no climbing until I’m home,” I tell her firmly. “Be good for Rose.”
“I’m always good.” She giggles. “Love you!”
The call ends, leaving an awkward silence. Rick straightens, putting space between us again.
“Your kids really adore you.” He says it like he’s figuring something out. “Your professional act drops when they’re around.”
“It’s not an act.” But we both know it is. Everything about Evie Ashbourne is an act. I’m playing a character, anyway. Everything except how I am with my girls.
“No?” He moves toward the door. “Shame. I like the real you better.”
The words follow me back to my spreadsheets. The real me. As if I even know who that is anymore.
Numbers blur together as the clock hits ten. My eyes burn, but it’s better than going home to a quiet house. Better than lying awake wondering if Luca’s men are a step closer.
“Enough.” Rick’s voice makes me jump. He stands in my doorway again, jacket over his arm. “We’re done for tonight.”
“Just a few more?—”
“That wasn’t a suggestion.” But his tone stays gentle. “Come on, gather your things. I’ll walk you out.”
I gather my things slowly, not ready to break whatever spell the night hours have cast. My coat gives me trouble, twisting awkwardly as I try to slide it on.
“Here.” Rick moves behind me. His hands catch my coat and hold it open.
I shouldn’t let him. I shouldn’t expose my back to anyone, even him. But my body betrays me, stepping into his space like it belongs there.
His fingers brush my neck as he settles the coat on my shoulders. That simple touch sends fire racing down my spine. I turn, meaning to step away.
Instead, I find myself inches from him. Close enough to see even his pupils. To catch the slight hitch in his breathing.
“Evie.” My name sounds different on his lips.
“Rick…” But I’m already tilting my face up.
His kiss, when it comes, holds nothing back. One hand cups my jaw while the other pulls me closer. He tastes like coffee and mint, things I’ve denied myself for too long.
I grab his shirt, needing a harbor. His tongue traces my bottom lip, asking permission I shouldn’t give. I open for him anyway.
The kiss deepens, and turns hungry. My back hits the wall. His thumb strokes my neck, finding spots that make me gasp. Is this how all members of an MC kiss?
The vibration of my phone snaps us out of it. We break apart, both breathing hard.
“I—” I start, but what can I say? Sorry, I just kissed my boss?
“You don’t have to say anything now.” He steps back, creating space I both need and hate. “We can talk tomorrow.”
The message is another text from Rose, just checking in. It is later than I thought. The drive home happens on autopilot. My lips still tingle. My skin remembers everywhere he touched.
Rose is reading a book on the couch when I enter the house. She looks up at the sound of the door. “The girls are sleeping. Owen’s dad picked him up an hour ago.”
“Thanks.” My voice sounds strange even to me.
“You okay?” She’s too sharp sometimes. Notices too much. “Did something happen at work?”
Work. Where I just kissed Rick Cross against a wall. Where his brother Zane flirts constantly. Where Chase watches me with eyes that see too much.
“I’m fine,” I lie. “Just tired.”
Rose eyes me as if she can see through my act, but she doesn’t comment on it this time. I bid her goodnight and she heads home, and I watch as her headlights disappear down the road.
The house is quiet. So normal. So different from the woman I was twenty minutes ago.
But my treacherous body remembers Rick’s hands. His mouth. The way he made me forget to be afraid.
I check on the girls before I go to bed. Violet’s sprawled across her mattress, one leg hanging off. Daisy sleeps curled around her favorite book.
What matters is keeping them safe and giving them a normal life. I can’t risk that for heated kisses in dark galleries.
But all I can think about is Rick Cross as I lie down on my bed. The way he touches—confident but careful. How he tastes. What might have happened if my phone hadn’t buzzed?
I find my hands roaming over my body in a bid to recreate his touches, but they don’t suffice. They never do.