“You’re lucky. He’s finishing up and hasn’t figured it out it’s you yet, or else he’d have cancelled your appointment like all the other times. Good call on this one.” She nods and laughs as she passes me an iPad to fill out my information. “Andy Walsh!” She snaps her fingers. “Molly Ringwald played her in Pretty in Pink, right?” she asks, her blue eyes shining with excitement.
Grinning like a Cheshire cat, I take the iPad, pass her my credit card, and whisper, “I’m officially a paying customer now, so there’s no turning back. I’m so excited!” I am practically bouncing. “I knew he’d never guess the name ‘Andy Walsh’.”
I’m about to give her a high-five, when it happens.
Ding!
I know that damn sound. I loathe what that sound can represent. Sure enough, Becks takes her eyes off mine and stares intently at the MacBook in front of her.
“Shit,” she says, looking at the computer screen before turning it around to face me.
First strike.
In the scheduling line at 3:15 p.m., the name “Andy Walsh” has disappeared. And in its place is a message:
Tell her to stop picking stupid ass names that are way too obvious. She and Eastlyn made me watch that damn movie a million times growing up. Such an amateur.
“That son-of-a-cake-baker!” I huff. I refuse to say “son-of-a-bitch” because—hello!—the world knows his mom Katie Hatfield is much too sweet for that. And let’s be real, she makes the best cakes ever. I feel my cheeks heat again as the sound of Keaton-Freaking-Hatfield’s deep rumble of a laugh echoes not only throughout the shop, but over my body, too. The sound affects me the same way it always has, it hits me right in the lady bits.
“Busted,” Becks chides, sliding my credit card back to me before taking back the iPad I apparently will no longer be needing.
“Sorry,” she mumbles, “I really thought you had him this time.”
“Me too,” I pout. “Damn that man.” I cross my arms like a petulant child, tapping my foot while waiting for the man-beast to reveal himself. I knew this might happen, but what I don’t get is why let me come all the way down here this time, why not have Becks cancel my appointment like the other twenty-six times?
“Kami.” Keaton’s deep timbre rumbles over my skin, igniting all my wayward senses with his smooth baritone, as he makes his way towards us from the small hallway, his chin jutting slightly in my direction, a stupid but sexy smirk on his equally stupid but handsome face. His grass-coloured eyes rake over me, from my face down to the tight-in-all-the-right-places sleeveless green blouse I’m wearing. His gaze doesn’t linger for nearly long enough. I feel the loss of heat, and wonder for the slightest of seconds if he likes what he sees?
Shaking my head, I need to tamp down those thoughts. It doesn’t matter. Without realizing, I return the favour, taking him in from head to toe as he walks up to stand beside Becks. The client he just finished follows not too far behind and sidles up to me, leaning on the counter to my right. He’s a middle-aged guy, a rocker type, with long, greying hair swept into a ponytail over his back, dressed in tight black leather pants despite the warm weather, and a faded Guns N’ Roses T. The man’s unable to stifle his laughter when he catches the laser beam stare I’m currently aiming in Keaton’s direction. Too bad for me it’s useless. Keaton is doing a bang-up job ignoring my glowering, making me a one-audience performer for Rocker Guy, here.
“She sure is a looker, Keat. Looks sweet as honey. And cute, too,” Rocker Guy gestures to Keaton, not paying me any mind. Typical.
“Try being her friend. She’s not as cute as she looks, and can be quite prickly, too. Trust me,” Keaton replies, looking my way, knowing I’m about to lose it.
“I might like that.” Rocker Guy gives me a sly grin, and I aim my lasers his way, causing him to bark out a laugh. I’m just about to throw down, when Keaton interjects.
“See, what I mean?”
I swear steam is about to come out of not only my ears, but my nose, too.
“I like ’em feisty, makes it more fun,” the man says, giving me a warm smile, and I realize he’s just fooling around. “Just gettin’ ya goin’, darlin’. Blame this buffoon, he told me you’re fun to rile.” He nods towards Keaton, and chuckles when I continue to seethe. “All right, I gotta go. Thanks, man. And…what? You think two, maybe three, more sessions?” Rocker Guy asks, handing over a wad of cash while tucking his shirt into place, before slipping on a leather vest.
“Should be,” Keaton says, his eyes on mine, silently telling me to put away the claws, even though he knows he’s going to get it as soon as the rocker says goodbye.
Once the guy is gone, I snap.
“What the hell, Keaton?” I cross my arms over my chest. “I’m ‘fun to rile’? You told him that? Jesus, Keat, that guy was approaching getting his ass kicked by the not-as-sweet-as-honey version of Kami. He was this close,” I push my fingers slightly apart, “to feeling just how prickly I can be when I’m provoked,” I huff, shaking my head. “The guy’s lucky he turned it around at the end there.”
Keaton leans over the counter and rests his chin on his hands, as if he’s all innocent and shit. His position draws my attention to his arms. I can hear him start to apologize, but I zone out, too distracted by those beautiful illustrated arms, ones I’ve spent too much time admiring as he’s grown. Arms I’ve seen go from scrawny to somewhat defined to their current state, the most incredible man arms in the history of men’s arms. I can’t keep my eyes from lingering; they refuse to budge. They snag and stare, lingering on the lines, twists, and swirls snaking their way in a mass of vibrant colours designed so intricately, inked so perfectly, from his muscular forearms to his biceps. Arms you know could both lift you up and protect you (if you were to want or need that, of course). God, I’ve spent too much of my time wondering what it would feel like to be wrapped up in those strong arms. I could probably land a Guinness World Record for Most Time Wasted on Thoughts of Keaton’s Arms.
Surely there’s a category for arm porn fantasies?
Wrapped around me.
Caging me against the counter, or a desk, or against a wall…
Or better yet, resting on either side of my face while positioned above me. Damn him and those eye-catching hot-as-fuck arms and all their tattooed glory.
“My eyes are up here,” Keaton says, his ridiculous self pulling me from my happy place.
“Whatever. Don’t flatter yourself. I was just thinking that maybe I should go to the guy who does your ink instead of coming to you. He’s pretty good,” I spew, the first thing that comes to mind.
“Too bad. That’s not happening, Hellcat.”
I hate it when he calls me that. I hate even more that he knows that, too.
“Keaton, really? I don’t get wh—”
He cuts me off. “‘Andy Walsh’, eh?” he questions, and I roll my eyes, admitting defeat at my poor choice of a movie character name. “You can do better than that, can’t you, Kam?”
He’s right, I really can. Still it annoys me. I feel my temper start to flare. He always does this. Cuts me off, then changes the subject, making it hard for me to circle back and ask the thing I wanted to ask. I’m way too easily sidetracked when he’s near, and a part of me thinks he knows it.
“How was I supposed to know your love of chick flicks from the ’80s was so savage?” I say.
He barks out a laugh and pulls my hand into his, turning it so my wrist is face up, before uncapping a purple Sharpie. He holds me tightly in place when I attempt to pull away.
“You’ve been hanging around your students too much. Never say that again. ‘Savage’. Jesus, those poor kids. Tell me you don’t speak like that in class?”
“Sure do, I’m cool like that,” I say, unable to keep a straight face. “I teach them all kinds of important things. We’re all pretty ‘woke’, too. It’s important that my students are aware. We’re fam. I’m lit,” I giggle, knowing I sound insane. It’s true, though. I work really hard to make sure
my Grade Eights are well-informed and know their opinions matter.
“‘We’re fam’? You’re ‘lit’?” he repeats, shaking his head. “It’s worse than I thought.” He tsks as I again try to pry my arm free from his hold.
“Nah-uh. Lemme.” He smiles mischievously, and the Sharpie’s scratchy tip begins to move around my inner wrist.
“Keaton, stop. That’s a permanent marker!” I squirm, which has no effect on him.
“You wanted ink,” he says, cocking his head, a glint lighting up his emerald eyes, “I got ink for ya.” He chuckles around the marker lid that’s stuffed in the corner of his pie hole, sadly not deep enough in his throat to drown out any escaping sounds.
The stupid lid draws my attention to his stupid mouth, which is an anomaly in and of itself, with that damn cupid’s bow lip. I long to feel its curves resting against my own.
How I want that mouth… Wait, no, he sucks. Oh boy, I need an intervention where this man is concerned.
“What are you drawing?” I scowl. “And why make me come here just to embarrass me then turn me away?” I’m starting to whine and it pisses me off. I’m not that girl.
“I wanted to tell you in person this time.” He pauses, leaning in a little closer. Like a dumbass, I follow suit, getting closer to the dark side. Jesus, he smells good. Like laundry detergent mixed with a hint of cloves, topped off with a hint of bad boy, if bad boys can be said to have a scent, that is.
Licking his lips, Keaton-Freaking-Hatfield brushes his mouth over my ear, before whispering, “Babe, you gotta stop making appointments under fake names that mean something to you.” His voice is gravelly, and my knees wobble at his use of ‘Babe’. But when his shit-eating grin follows, my blood boils. My knees agree with me that he’s being a jerk and they knock off that wobbling bullshit.
“How did you even remember the name Andy Walsh?” I ask, my voice a little breathless from his proximity.
“I remember everything of importance.” The bastard winks and my stupid knees forgive him, once again starting to wobble. “Not to mention the fact that you and Eastlyn fucking tortured McCoy and me with that movie on repeat over the years,” he says, referring to my best friend—who also happens to be his sister. “Plus, well…” he shrugs, “that chick was kinda hot. I do dig a redhead every now and then.”
And there’s the Keaton I know, folks. The one who loves to push my buttons, the jerk. Of course he thinks Molly Ringwald is hot, who doesn’t he think is hot?
“I’ll just go somewhere else,” I protest, not touching the “hot” comment, as I try to free my wrist again.
“Stop moving, or you’ll fuck up my masterpiece,” Keaton says, turning my wrist towards Becks so she can take a peek.
She rolls her eyes. “I’m going to lunch.” She shakes her head, and her eyes dart between the two of us before she walks away, barely stifling a snarky giggle as she goes.
“I mean it, Keat, I’ll go to Joey at Ink Bottom,” I threaten, but Keaton’s shoulders only shake with amusement. His eyes meet and hold mine. He takes an exaggerated breath and says the same thing he does every time I talk about doing what we both know I won’t do.
“No one in Guelph will touch you. Especially Joey.”
“I’ll go to Toronto or Niagara,” I hedge, and he ignores me, the marker still making swift passes along my skin. I lean up, trying to get a glimpse, and the jerk simply shakes his head no and repositions his body like a shield, blocking my view. Great, now I get to stare at the way his Perfect Circle concert T is stretched so nicely across his shoulders. The way it molds itself to his muscles so perfectly reminds me of how I’ll only ever get to see, but never touch up close and personal, what I know is hiding beneath the thin fabric, muscles I’ve watched him work hard for, ones I want to explore with my tongue. My mouth is watering. Damn this stupid man, and his powers over me!
I shake my head and tell my inner hussy to calm the hell down.
Game face. Put your damn game face back on.
“No, you won’t. We both know I’ll be the only one touching your skin.” He looks up, a smug smile on his face.
I scoff, “As if you’re the only man who has ever touched or will ever touch me.”
“Kami.” He grits his teeth, his eyes snapping up and holding mine. Now I’m the one looking smug, knowing I’ve struck a nerve.
Counterstrike.
“It’s true. My body’s been touched many, many times. Plus I think, no, I know I could find someone who’d be up for the job, if you’re not.” This time it’s me leaning in close to his ear. Take that.
“Kami, I swear to Christ.” His eyes drop to my mouth. Feeling like I finally have the upper hand, I trail my tongue across my bottom lip. Two can play at this game.
“Don’t get all pissy. You don’t have the right to say anything or worry about me being touched, Keaton. We’re just friends, remember?” I say, tossing what we are to each other in his face once again as a reminder. Not that he knows from ever hearing it from my own mouth exactly that I have feelings for him beyond friendship, but let’s be real. I’m about as obvious as an elephant wearing a tutu sitting on a couch watching TV. No matter how much I think my denial game is savage, anyone who knows me knows I’m full of shit. I know damn well my eyes light up and my cheeks flush at the mere mention of Keaton Hatfield. I feel it, every damn time. Too bad he’s oblivious and I’m happy pretending I’m not that obvious.
“Doesn’t matter what things look like between us on the surface, babe. We both know you won’t let anyone touch what’s truly mine,” the jackass actually says, while a sexy, lopsided grin crosses his lips. I know he’s doing it to get a rise out of me. Keaton has always made these kind of comments, ones he knows drive me crazy. A part of me wonders if he says shit like this so I’ll snap and admit my true feelings, or if he really is this obtuse to my feelings for him?
I feel my throat burn with words that are fighting like wildfire to escape. How dare he do this to me when he knows better? My whole life Keaton has done this fucked up dance of give-and-take with me, yet he never commits enough to the routine to take the lead and dance with me as a true partner. He never admits that what we feel for each other is anything more than friendship. I’ve sat waiting on the sidelines for him so long that maybe it’s time I wake myself the hell up and let this—whatever it is—fizzle out. Maybe it’s time to really start dating and putting myself out there, and stop waiting for Keaton to decide he wants me, too?
“You know what?” I tilt my head, my eyes pinned to his.
“Hmm?”
“Forget it, I’m not doing this with you.”
“Good.” He releases my wrist, but before I look down, he continues to torment me. “Now stop wasting both of our time. No one’s inking shit on you, Kam, except for me. And for now, I refuse.”
“God, you piss me off.”
“I know. It’s okay, though, deep down you like it as much as I do.” He winks at me, a knowing grin pulling at the side of his stupidly-handsome face.
That sets me off.
“You know what?” I lean in, determined, the markings on my wrist for now forgotten. “I’ll get you to ink me one day, Keaton. And if you don’t give in soon, I’ll find someone to take pity on me. Someone out there will gladly touch me. And I’ll make sure I find him,” I volley back with a wink of my own. But I know I’ve only pissed him off with my double entendre.
“Kami,” Keaton grinds out, his knuckles turning white as he grips the countertop, my comment sinking in.
“See you tomorrow morning for our run. And don’t be late again,” I turn to leave but stop mid-step, looking over my shoulder, needing one last jab. “I’ll slip in unnoticed one day, Keat, and I’ll make you give in. It’s a goal. And we both know how goal-oriented I’ve always been.” I head towards the door, a satisfied smile plastered across my face. Even though I’m leaving without a real tattoo, I sort of feel like I might’ve won this battle.
Well, until I hear him mutter, �
��Too bad for you, you’re fucking impossible not to notice.” And just like that, the pendulum that swings between Kami’s side to Keaton’s swings right back over to the damn dark side. Son-of-a-cake-baker!
It isn’t until I’m outside sitting in my car, trying to decide if I heard what I thought I heard, I remember to look at my wrist. As soon as I do, I burst out laughing. On my wrist in purple Sharpie is a drawing of a muffin with two huge, muscular arms hanging from either side of the muffin top, the face akin to Keat’s, complete with legs and other tiny details bringing it to life. The finishing touch? A small caption that reads: Keaton is a stud muffin.
“Oh, you’re something, all right, Keaton.” I say, to no one but myself.
If only we could be a thing, I think as I drive away from Inkredible, denied for the twenty-seventh time. Only this time, I’m smiling…a little.
2
I Always Knew You Were a Weirdo
Keaton
Knowing I need to smooth things over with Kami, I throw down a quick text.
Me: Don’t be pissed at me, but I refuse to give you some generic bullshit tatt. You’ll thank me when you’re 60. Trust me.
Her reply is almost immediate. Ten to one she’s sitting in her car fuming over the Sharpie special I did give her. I laugh as I read her reply.
Hellcat: I won’t thank you, considering it’s an original I want done. You’re too stubborn to listen. So, yeah, thanks very much, Dud Muffin.
I bark out a laugh as Becks, the shop’s manager, walks over, back from her break, and gives me a knowing look. Becks is a tiny thing, but packs a hell of a punch with her take-no-shit attitude. It’s partly her ever-changing hair colour and mostly black wardrobe that does it. Her husband, José, and I always joke that if it weren’t for her bright eyes and warm smile, we’d both be afraid of her.
“Let me guess, the grovelling texts have commenced?” she asks, knowing this is what Kami and I do afterwards, each and every time I turn her away. For some inexplicable reason, I can easily stomach turning Kami away from the shop, but the thought of her staying mad at me for it bugs the hell out of me.
First Love (Winning at Love Book 2) Page 2
