47. Ember
EMBER
As soon as Gage and Kai leave, the weight of three pairs of eyes bore into me as I try in vain to focus on the appointments calendar.
All three men are still busy with clients, but I can tell they’re all curious and concerned about my meeting with Gage and Kai. I must not be doing a good job of hiding my inner turmoil.
I slip back to the restroom and lean against the door once I’m alone inside. My heart’s pounding like I’ve been for a long run, and I force myself to take deep breaths. I could use a good, long cry, but then I’d have to deal with makeup touch-ups and even more odd looks from the men.
I need to hold myself together so I can make a plan. When we’re home tonight, I need to tell the three of them that we can’t continue what we’ve been doing, and I need to be firm about it this time. It was all only meant to be temporary, anyway.
“Ember, are you okay?” Griffin’s voice, and the accompanying knock, startle me.
An image of me flinging open the door and burying myself against his chest is so appealing that I almost act on it, but I know I can’t. “I’m okay. I’ll be out in a minute.”
Running cold water on my hands helps me focus and reset. Another deep breath. I can do this.
When I step out, Griffin’s waiting in the hall. “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing.” More lies.
“Did something happen with Kai and Gage?” He stretches an arm out toward me, but I step out of his reach.
“I’ll talk to you about it tonight. I can’t right now.”
“Wait. What’s wrong?” He takes hold of my arm as I start back toward the front, and I stiffen.
“Griffin, please. I can’t talk right now. Please tell Zeb and Frank, too.”
He nods, looking skeptical. It’s yet another thing I feel bad about, but there’s no way we can have the conversation that’s needed while we’re here at work, and I’m afraid if I say anything about it, I’ll break down.
The next couple of hours pass normally, at least as far as the shop goes. I find out that my instructor doesn’t accept late assignments, but I email them anyway to apologize, explaining that I had a family emergency (another lie, another knot in my stomach), and asking if I can turn it in late for partial credit. And then I start working on it, just in case they say yes.
It’s nearly closing time when a man comes into the shop. He’s as big as Griffin, in faded jeans that stretch over muscular thighs and a sleeveless t-shirt that shows off his massive arms. His dark hair is down to his shoulders, framing a strong face with stubble on his jawline and striking golden-brown eyes.
He leans one arm on the counter and smiles. It’s a great smile, and I bet it makes women drop their panties. “Hey, gorgeous. Any openings in your schedule?”
I double check, even though I already know the answer. “I’m afraid not, but I’d be happy to make an appointment for you.”
His smile deepens. “What about your personal schedule?”
I blink. There’s no doubt he’s a total snack, but even apart from Griffin, Frank and Zeb, the last thing I’m in the mood for right now is flirting. This guy probably hits on every woman he meets, but that doesn’t make it any more welcome.
It’s a challenge to keep my expression neutral, but I say, “No openings there either. Did you want to make an appointment for a session with one of our artists?”
“You sure?” His voice drops into a deeper register. “I could rock your world.”
I don’t get a chance to respond, because suddenly Frank is there. “She said no.” His voice is tight with anger.
The man turns his head to Frank, then slowly straightens and faces off with him. “Oh, look. A guard dog.”
My stomach sinks. These two could do each other some real damage if things get out of hand.
Frank’s eyes narrow, and his hand starts to curl into a fist. “Watch yourself.”
The man’s lip curls. “Go eat a biscuit and fuck off, Fido.”
Frank grabs a fistful of the man’s shirt, his other hand pulling back, ready to launch a punch. “Frank!” I yell. When he looks at me, I say, “Let him go,” and hope the plea in my eyes comes through.
After a moment, Frank releases him. Fortunately, the man doesn’t try to retaliate. He smooths down his shirt, eyeing Frank like he’s trash in a gutter. “Some other time,” he says to me, and saunters toward the door.
As soon as he’s gone, I turn to Frank, who still looks like he’s ready to pummel something. Or someone. A suggestion escapes from my lockbox: he could work out all that macho energy with me.
I shove that filthy thought back into storage as my inner muscles clench and say softly, “You could have gotten fired.” Or hurt .
A muscle works in his jaw, and then he takes a breath and makes a visible effort to relax. “You’re right,” he says. “I just?—”
“I know. But, Frank … I deal with men like that all the time. I could have handled it.”
That fast, his temper flares again. “You shouldn’t have to.”
Oh my. His chivalry and jealousy are entirely unnecessary … but damn, they’re hot. My earlier suggestion, ignoring logic and reason, tries to wriggle out of the lockbox, and I have to sit on the lid to keep it contained.
Frank goes back to his station, and I drink some water and try to get myself back on an even keel. Things have gotten way out of hand. My emotions have gotten involved, and so, it seems, have theirs, at least as far as being jealous of other men around me. I need to end things, for all our sakes, and I need to mean it.
I’m too edgy and uncomfortable to sit still. I ask the men if they can close up, and after making several promises to talk to them as soon as I get home, I leave the shop and take an Uber to the house Ava shares with her men.