by Tina Donahue
Clover walked worse than Molly had, her parasol bumping her shin. She held the binders so tightly the plastic edges cut into her arms. “I’m okay.”
“Of course you are.” Lauren ushered her into a small office. Another playpen, a twin to the one out front, dominated the space.
Molly gurgled from inside the thing.
Clover sank to the sofa. “Do you mind closing the door?”
“Not at all. Why?”
So Van Gogh couldn’t find her and break their date. If they had one. He’d never actually said yes.
Clover gritted her teeth. Why did relationships have to be this damn hard? TV people ditched their clothes and screwed like monkeys after their first glance or hello. The babe in Quantico got it on with her dude in his car after sitting across from him on a plane. They hadn’t even exchanged names at that point. Grey’s Anatomy was no different when McDreamy had met Mer. After sleeping with him all night, she didn’t know or couldn’t recall his name. No biggie. It was only sex. Fun. The love part came later and screwed up everything.
Maybe she was doing this backward, liking Van Gogh too much, putting unnecessary pressure on him and herself.
Jasmina sat on the sofa arm and rubbed Clover’s back. “You gonna live?”
She pointed at the monitor. “Did you guys watch? Did you actually listen?”
Lauren closed the door and joined them. “Not after the first few seconds.”
“Was it that painful to see? Do you record the audio of client sessions? If so, I’d like to hear mine.”
“Why?”
Clover couldn’t recall what happened, the entire encounter a blur. “Shouldn’t you guys be working?”
Jasmina waved her hand dismissively. “Tor’s between clients. He’s manning the front counter.”
“My work’s in here.” Lauren patted Clover’s knee. “What happened with Van Gogh?”
“I’m not sure. That’s why I’d like to check the recording. See if I did or said anything dumber than the snatches I remember. I don’t want you guys watching along with me.”
“We wouldn’t do that.” Lauren leaned back on the sofa. The leather cushion puffed around her. “Did he chase you out?”
“I left before he could say no.”
Jasmina leaned over. “To what?”
“I asked him to dinner at my place and basically suggested he stay the night. At least I think I did. Everything happened so fast. I couldn’t stop talking. I told him about Alice.”
“Is she okay?” Jasmina gripped Clover’s shoulder. “She’s not sick, is she?”
“She’s fine. Told me to tell you hi the next time we talked. So, hi. I’m the one with the problem. I’m afraid to leave here. That’s why I have these.” She dropped the binders on her knees. “It was the only way I could stick around without it seeming weird.”
“I’m not following.” Lauren put the binders and parasol on the cushion to her side. “Why can’t you leave?”
“If I do, Van Gogh might not follow. This could be a replay of me and Seth Cummings.”
“Who?”
“Guy in middle school. Asked him to a dance and made him hurl. I’m not good at this. If I had my way, I’d simply tell Van Gogh how hot he is and that I’m going to die if we don’t get seriously naked. To me, speaking my mind is so much easier than flirting. Being direct and going for it works on TV all the time.”
“Better take it slower in real life, at least with him.” Lauren held Clover’s hand. “If you haven’t noticed, he’s shy around women.”
“Why? How’s that even possible? His hair, his muscles, oh my God, his chest. Have you seen it?”
Lauren offered a weak smile. “He showed it to me the first day I came here.”
That didn’t sound good. “Why would he do that? Did he like you?”
“No. Dante told him to do it. I think he wanted to impress me with Van Gogh’s talent, hoping I wouldn’t sell the place.”
“And you didn’t. You’re expanding. So you know what I’m talking about. Van Gogh’s legendary.”
“Our girl has it bad.” Jasmina slung her arm around Clover’s shoulders and shook her. “You have to understand, though, he didn’t always look the way he does now.”
“You mean perfect? Don’t tell me he’s had plastic surgery. I won’t believe it. The docs would have made him look pretty like Matt Bomer, not tough like Daniel Craig.”
Lauren straightened. “Now that you mention it, he does look a little like Daniel. Much younger, of course.”
“You’re not listening.” Jasmina wagged her finger at Clover. “Van Gogh’s long hair and muscles are recent additions. Eventually, his confidence may follow.”
“You’re saying he’s not sure of himself?”
“Oh, sweetie.” Lauren sighed. “Surely you’ve noticed.”
“No. I thought he was quiet. Intense. Moody. You know, artistic.”
“He’s that, too, but he’s also reserved. For lack of a better word, bashful. Like I used to be. When I was growing up, guys always called me the F-word, and I’m not talking full-figured.”
Clover couldn’t believe this. “You’re gorgeous.” Lauren’s honey-blond hair, blue eyes, creamy complexion, and voluptuous figure would have made her cheesecake material during WWII, the same as Jasmina. “How dare anyone say you’re fat.”
“That’s the word.” She groaned. “It took me a long time before I believed a guy as hot as Dante could want someone like me. I still have moments when I’m not sure of myself. Van Gogh’s no different, given how he looked before.”
“You guys keep saying that. Was there more than his hair and build involved? Was he in an accident and doctors had to put him back together and he’s finally healed?”
“Nothing so dramatic.” Jasmina left the sofa and rifled through papers on the desk.
Lauren frowned. “What are you looking for?”
“Those brochures you had printed up when you first came here.”
“Bottom left drawer.”
Jasmina handed one to Clover. “Check it out. That’s the old Van Gogh.”
His bald noggin resembled a newborn’s. His scraggly goatee wouldn’t win any awards. And his bod… He’d been as skinny as Clover, as narrow, too, making him seem like a teen rather than a man. She smiled. “Aw, he was cute.”
Jasmina laughed. “You got it worse than bad.”
“I’m being honest. He’s the same guy now as he was back then, just bulked up, along with some hair.” Not to mention hotter than sin. Her stomach twisted. “Did a woman cause him to change? He fell in love with her? She dumped him because she didn’t like how he looked?” He still wanted her and hit the gym, hoping that would do the trick?
Molly threw her pacifier out of the playpen.
Lauren’s shoulders sagged. “Sweetie, you know you’re not supposed to do that.”
She used an all-natural, nontoxic baby wipe to clean the nipple and popped it back into her daughter’s mouth. “My guess is inking in the front window encouraged Van Gogh to work out, though not because he wants to attract babes like the other artists do. Van Gogh’s too quiet for that, but he is human. We all want to look our best and be like everyone else, not the odd man out. I think his goal was to blend in so he could relax in front of an audience.”
“You mean pretending they’re not there.”
“Exactly.” Jasmina crossed her legs. “But only because he’s not confident yet. If he were, he’d be showing off. Trust me, you came at the right time. Snag him quick and mold him to your specifications before he gets a swelled head.”
And she’d lost her one chance, because she couldn’t possibly compete with real babes. Clover rubbed her temple. “I don’t want to snag, trap, or con him. I suck at stuff like that with guys. I simply want him to want me for who I am. Imperfect, I know, but still—”
“Hey, hey, hey.” Lauren smacked Clover’s knee. “You’re beautiful. Before I met Dante, I would have sold my soul to have your figure. With your looks you could
be a high-fashion model.”
“Yeah, I know. They look like twelve-year-old boys. Maybe I should work out where Van Gogh does.”
“You should be looking forward to tonight. Are you cooking for him?”
Clover laughed, surprised she could, given her anxiety. “If I knew how to, I would. I thought we’d get a pizza on the way. Doesn’t he like that?”
“It’s one of his staples when he eats here, but not good enough for your first date.” Lauren grabbed her smartphone. “Dante and Tor’s uncle Rafe owns Castillo’s Cuban Cuisine. Best food in Northwood Village and Van Gogh’s absolute favorite place. Have you ever eaten there?”
“No.”
“You’re in for a treat. Rafe will deliver a meal you’ll never forget, starting with bocaditos, every variety. That includes ham, chicken, beef, and cheese. After the appetizers, you can dive into boliche. Ever try it?”
“No.”
“Trust me, you’ve never tasted anything as good. It’s beef roast stuffed with chorizo and hard-boiled eggs. Heaven on a plate with rice-and-bean sides. For dessert, he’ll throw in brazo gitano—that’s sponge cake filled with mango marmalade. I’ll ask him to add turrónes. They’re a mixture of toasted almonds and honey. For good measure, I’ll have him give you a few churros. You do know what they are, right?”
“Yeah, but I can’t afford what you’re talking about. I told Van Gogh that Alice was selling a lot of my stuff. That was when I was having diarrhea of the mouth. The truth is, I’m barely making it. A Domino’s pizza is all I can do. I have a coupon.”
“You won’t need it.” Lauren winked. “This is on me.”
“No, I couldn’t.”
“Too late. I already have Castillo’s on the line.” Lauren held up her finger. “Rafe?” She grinned. “Yeah, it’s me. Hi. I have an order for later. A delivery.” She listened then shook her head. “No, not here. The apartment above Alice’s Wonderland. Wait.” She pressed the phone against her boobs and spoke to Jasmina. “What’s the number?”
“Doesn’t have one. It’s on the second floor, left side. Only door there.”
“Is Van Gogh working clear through to closing?”
Jasmina nodded.
Lauren wiggled her eyebrows at Clover. “Better add a half hour for you guys to get home. Thankfully, Castillo’s is open until midnight.” She relayed the info to Rafe then killed the call. “You’re all set.”
Clover grasped her knees. “Van Gogh didn’t actually say yes. What if he bails?”
“He won’t.”
“Promise?”
Lauren chewed her lower lip. “Let’s say if he does, and I really don’t think that will happen, Jasmina and I will take you home, we’ll help you eat the food, then we’ll go clubbing. Girls’ night out.”
Jasmina smiled slyly. “That’s code for getting wasted.”
No amount of booze would make Clover forget Van Gogh. This might prove to be the worst night of her life. “I shouldn’t have dragged you guys into my problems.”
“We offered.” Lauren blew a kiss at Molly. “We’re also getting ahead of ourselves. He hasn’t said no.”
“Maybe he passed out after I left and hasn’t come to yet.”
“Let’s look.” She adjusted the monitor, bringing up Van Gogh’s station. Empty.
Clover buried her face in her hands. “He’s looking for me so he can bail.”
Chapter Four
Van Gogh sagged against the fridge in the break room and pressed a cold soda can to his forehead. The chilled metal did zip to alleviate the heat barreling through him. Never had he been as fevered.
Shoes slapped the linoleum. Loud throat-clearing sounded.
He didn’t budge.
“Bad day?”
Tor. Or rather, Mr. Charm, amusement in his question. Since Tor was one of the so-called beautiful people, he couldn’t possibly understand how fucking hard it was for Van Gogh to interact with a woman, make her smile, laugh, or God forbid, genuinely like him for the screwed-up jerk he was. Tor attracted babes more easily than a magnet did metal. With Marnie in his life now, their future was sweeter than a sappy Hallmark card. All Van Gogh wanted was a sliver of that and enough good sense to trust it.
Tor stepped closer. “Seriously, man, are you all right?”
“Do I look it?”
“Hell, you never do. That’s who you are. But you’ve never collapsed against the fridge before.”
“I’m resting.”
“There’s a convertible chair in your station. Lay it out. Take a nap. I’m sure Lauren won’t mind.”
Van Gogh pushed away from the fridge and stood toe to toe with Tor.
Tor backed away.
Van Gogh followed. “I need to talk.”
“Seriously?”
“Would I be collapsing against the fridge if I didn’t?”
“Hopefully not. Go on. Talk.”
“Not here. Your station.”
“Did you hurt a customer?”
Already unglued, Van Gogh saw red. “I taught you how to use a tattoo machine the right way after you took that crappy online course. I did my own chest.” He pushed it out. “Your gladiator tat is my design and work.” He smacked the 3-D image on Tor’s shoulder. “Did I hurt a customer? That’s a question you better never ask again.”
“Slow down, Conan. I meant did you run into someone in the hall because you had your head down like you usually do. Or did you step on a woman’s foot because you weren’t watching where you were heading. Or did you—?”
“None of the above.” He fidgeted, unable to keep still. “I’ve got something going on tonight, and I’d like some advice.”
“Are your plans legal?”
Van Gogh clenched his jaw.
Tor held up his hands. “I’m asking because Dante’s an attorney. You’d get better advice talking to him.”
“You’ll do. Come on.” Van Gogh led the way to Tor’s station and shut the door. “I think I have a date tonight.”
“You’re not sure? A friend’s fixing you up? You called a service?”
“Clover asked me to dinner.”
Tor’s face lit up. “Congrats. That’s great. She seems nice.”
Never had a woman praised his tats as she had or liked his other designs as much. She hadn’t merely been kind then, she’d meant what she said, the truth in her exquisite eyes. That, alone, floored him, but coupled with her other stuff… She smelled better than anyone on Earth. Was prettier, too. Lloyd’s of London should have insured her complexion against harm, that’s how special it was. “I don’t know what to bring.”
“Condoms.” He slapped Van Gogh’s arm. “K-Y, too, just in case. Don’t let her see it, though, until she’s too far gone to care how prepared you are.”
Van Gogh stopped Tor from opening the door. “I’m not sure why she asked me. One second we were discussing a tat she wanted to get. In the next, she’s telling me we can talk about the design at dinner, at her place, and take the whole night to do so if necessary. What do you think?”
“Better bring six rubbers, at least. To be safe, make it an even dozen.”
Jesus. Getting a normal answer here was like pulling fucking teeth. “Will you get your mind out of the damn gutter? I’m trying to have a serious conversation here.”
“Since when is sex anything but that?”
Van Gogh wanted to scream. “I’m asking if you think she invited me because she’s OCD about her tat or she’s using it as an excuse to be with me…like on a date. I don’t want to make an ass of myself if I misunderstood.” He pointed. “And don’t you dare suggest I ask her. That’s as bad as telling a woman how old you think she is or how much she weighs.”
“Agreed, but how should I know what Clover’s thinking? I’ve barely talked to her when she’s been here.”
“You’re good with women. They fall all over you. Lauren has to run interference when you ink in the window.”
Tor waved away the comment. “That’s stupid stuff.”
Spoken like a true Adonis who had no idea how lesser guys lived. As an artist, Van Gogh recognized perfection. Tor’s Latin looks, athletic build, snug tank top, and jeans made him a shoo-in for an Armani fragrance ad. All he needed was water running down him to complete a female’s fantasy. “If Clover is interested, I don’t want to run her off. And I know I should have learned how to interact with women when I was in high school, but I’m not exactly a babe magnet. I could barely open my mouth to talk to her. The only time I relaxed was when we discussed my tats and art.”
“Then do that. The rest will come easily once you get to know each other and become friends. It’s not that complicated if you take the sex out.”
“Then I shouldn’t bring condoms?”
“What do you think?”
Van Gogh shoved back his hair.
Tor laughed. “Sorry, I couldn’t resist. It’s always wise to be prepared. You can’t count on her to do that for you.”
“You think?” He made a face. “I’m trying to get up to speed. I’m not twelve years old and clueless. Should I bring anything else besides rubbers and K-Y?”
“Only if you want to look like a dick or a stalker. The furthest you should go is booze. No flowers, candy, or presents. That’s for after your big night when you want to show her how you feel.” He punched Van Gogh’s shoulder lightly and opened the door. “I need to get to my client. Good luck with dinner. Don’t forget to have fun.”
Van Gogh would have sold his soul to loosen up and take things as they came. Wasn’t in his genetic makeup or history. In the past, he’d protected himself by always preparing for the worst—him losing out to other, more worthy humans, being laughed at or demeaned by them.
It had happened too many times for him to count.
For him to drop his mask at this late date, to be vulnerable, and to be himself was scarier than facing a loaded gun.
He ached to do the adult thing and ask Clover if her invite was about work or something more. The possibility of getting the wrong answer kept him focused on logistics. He left the parlor, ran to the drugstore for rubbers and lube, then returned, the junk he’d bought stuffed in his pockets, hidden from view.
Jasmina stared at him from the counter.
