Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
Eli
She’s on the phone, smiling as she fills a cancellation slot for Dean in four weeks’ time, as I see my last client of the day out the door.
I never used to bother doing that - it’s not like they don’t know the way to the exit - but since Emily started working here last week, I’ve found myself doing it every time.
Leo and Dean have both noticed, and I’ve seen them nudge each other and grin, but they haven’t said anything yet.
It’s probably only a matter of time, but I need to head that off at the pass.
It’s not like I’m mooning over her, or hanging around her like a moth around a bonfire, or doing anything more than treating our new employee with polite respect, right?
But it’s not just showing them to the door, either.
I’ve been emerging from my studio a little more often generally, making my own beverages instead of people bringing them to me because I’ve hyperfocused on my work and lost track of time.
Sometimes I pass her in the corridor, and she does this cute thing where she hunches her shoulders, trying to make herself smaller so she can get by.
And sometimes she says ‘oop’ as she scoots past, and I secretly melt every time.
It is oddly fascinating to watch her work, too.
She fidgets a lot when she’s on the phone taking messages and booking appointments, twirling her pen around her fingers, and sometimes doodling random shapes or flowers, unable to stay still.
And I know the callers can hear her smile as she talks.
I just know it. She’s great with clients face to face, too, chatting and enthusing with them sincerely over their requested designs and assuring them that we’ll take the best care of them.
I’ve seen a couple of the regulars get a little too friendly with her, and it never fails to set my teeth on edge, but she’s managed to keep them at arm’s length while still being nice to them.
More than those pussy hounds deserve; if I had my way, I’d throw them physically through the door.
Another thing: she always makes sure we have everything we need, from the essentials, like sufficient stock of inks and numbing cream and antiseptic wipes, to little things that she’s gone out of her way to find out about.
Sadie’s favorite brand of coffee, for example, and Leo’s favorite potato chips.
And I haven’t skipped lunch once since she got here, because she always brings me back a Subway or a pasta salad when she goes out, just to make sure I have to take a break to eat it.
She places it next to me so gingerly, and then hurries away before I can say thank you.
I found out this morning that she does the same thing for Dean, too, and my heart clenched in my chest with how sweet that is.
Plus, she’s getting better at ASL every day; she must be cramming every night.
I was hoping my crush would die off as quickly as it came, but I’m shit out of luck there. She’s gorgeous, my exact type, and she’s a really nice person.
Stick a fork in me, I’m done.
How many times do I have to tell myself to just forget it before I’ll listen…
She looks up when my client leaves. He’s pleased with the Dali-esque melting clock I inked onto his arm. Her eyes brighten a little. “Hi!”
Although I know better and have given myself a pep talk every morning since last week about keeping my distance, I can’t help smiling back. “Hey. Had a good day?”
She nods, finishing an Outlook calendar entry. “Lovely and peaceful for a Friday.” I really, really like her voice. If whipped cream could talk…
I don’t know where these silly thoughts have come from; they’re out of character for me.
“Good,” I respond a beat too late, casting around for something else to say to prolong the moment, but knowing I should probably just go back to my studio and clean up for the day.
Fortunately, she comes to my rescue. “How about you?”
“Not bad at all,” I reply, smiling again. I haven’t stopped fucking smiling since she got here. “I’ve got an interesting one tomorrow. He sent me the design. Wanna see?”
She nods happily, and I whip out my cell and search through my emails until I find the right one, handing it to her.
“He wants this done on his back.” It’s a war horse, its face protected by metal armor.
It’s hyper-realistic, looking more like a photo than a drawing.
Fortunately, that’s my specialty, and I’m really looking forward to this one.
“Oh, wow,” she breathes, genuinely impressed as she studies it, “that looks incredible.”
As she leans over, her hair - loose and straight today - brushes ever so slightly against my arm, and I can smell her coconut shampoo. I manage to restrain a sigh.
Forget it. She’s not one of your one-night-onlys. One night with her and you’d be a goner, and you know it, and you know why you can’t. Don’t waste her time.
“I wish I was brave enough,” she says, so quietly that I almost miss it.
I look at her in surprise. “Are you thinking of getting some ink done?” I ask, trying hard to force my mind away from the mental image of her naked back spread out in front of me on my wine-red leather chair in my studio, her gorgeous ink-virgin skin under my hands and needle, my very own canvas.
Like placing fresh footprints in new snow. God. Yes. Please. I’ll do anything.
She looks up at me with those big, pretty eyes and chuckles grimly as she shakes her head. “I’d love to, but I’m terrified of needles, and much too much of a sniveling little coward to feel the fear and do it anyway.”
There she goes again. I frown. I've noticed she never misses a chance to insult herself. The slightest mistake has her calling herself a dumbass under her breath. It’s hard to listen to without wanting to throw all the compliments I can think of her way.
“Is it the pain you’re worried about?” I ask gently and with genuine interest.
She looks up at me again, seeming surprised I asked, and shrugs uncomfortably. “Not so much the pain. I can take pain. It’s...I don’t know, it’s the idea of the needle piercing my skin over and over. Makes me feel…” She shivers a little.
Our eyes meet, and lock. Neither of us looks away.
God damn, those eyes of hers...I never knew slate gray could be such a warm color.
It’s a beat too long for it to be purely innocent now.
And still it continues.
Her eyes darken, and the expression in them is kindling into.
..something. Probably the exact same one I find myself wearing.
She bites her lip, and I groan inwardly, trying not to imagine leaning forward and running my tongue over the indentations of the bite mark she’s creating before slipping it inside her mouth for a taste of her.
Goosebumps break out along my arms, tingling down my spine, and my heart beats a little faster as my breath catches.
I can smell her perfume. I want to pull her to me and breathe her in…
I have to look away. I have to. But my fingertips tingle with the urge to touch her, and a soft breath escapes her lips, like a tiny gasp, and she's still not breaking eye contact, either...
“Guys, have you seen my phone charger?” Sadie chooses that moment to wander in, searching all the power outlets, and the moment is broken. I’m torn between relieved gratitude and wanting to growl at her like an irritable mutt.
But ultimately it’s a good thing. Emily is now distracted, helping Sadie look around, so I slip away, back to my studio.
I need to do much, much better than this.
There’s a reason I’ve got to be single forever, or at best until I’m too old for it to matter, and I cannot allow myself to get sucked down this path.
It leads only to hurt. It doesn’t matter how much my belly dips when she smiles; nothing can start, and even if it did, there’s no point in torturing myself with a small taste of a heaven that I can’t ever really have.
Usually I can face down being romantically alone with a fatalistic shrug, but not this time.
This time, the prospect seems disappointing, and depressingly bleak.
A waste. Long, lonely, empty years stretch out in front of me, and, instead of my usual calm acceptance, I resent each and every one of them.
It’s as though I’ve poked an old sore injury and woken up the raw nerve endings.
Resolutely distracting my mind from Emily Cole for what feels like the hundredth time, I start wiping down my leather chair, ready for my next client tomorrow.
There’s a tap at my door, and Leo’s head appears around the frame.
I nod. “Where y’at,” I murmur, a traditional New Orleans greeting, because after all, half of Leo is a NoLa boy.
He grins. “Awrite. Pub? To celebrate Em’s first complete week?”
I’d love to. “Thanks, but I’ll pass,” I say, not stopping what I’m doing, hoping that he won’t try to persuade me.
Once again, I’m shit out of luck, but I suspected this would be the case. “You’ll pass?” he says, sounding surprised, walking in and putting on his leather jacket. “How come?”
I look at him sharply, and, although he’s acting all puzzled, we know each other too well. I can see in his face that he knows exactly what the problem is, and bullshitting him will be a waste of his time and mine. “Because it’s not a good idea, and you know why,” I reply, quietly but firmly.
For a split second there is a hint - just the barest trace - of pity in his expression, but my cousin knows better than to do anything other than smother it immediately, which he does.
“Mate, you don’t know if that’s something she even wants,” he says gently, the British half of his accent sounding stronger.
“Everyone deserves to still have choices open to them,” I mutter darkly.