by Bright, Sera
“You’re the only person making things difficult,” he said with an innocent look on his face. “Nothing bad is going to happen. It’s just for this week, remember? You’re leaving soon.”
Right. Just for the week, which was entirely my brilliant idea. It didn’t seem so brilliant every time he smiled at me or every time he touched me.
A wicked thought occurred to me. I faked being responsible really well. Most of the time. But Jerry’s misogynistic expectations irked the shit out of me. He wanted nice. I should be nice for my last night, even if it happened to be to the only person I was willing to commit to that level of customer service for.
I leaned over the table to fill Ash’s empty glass with the water pitcher, waving my breasts practically in his face. What’s a little violation of personal space? As I set the pitcher back down, I accidentally on purpose lost my balance and tumbled onto his lap. Whoops. Luckily, he didn’t seem to care about my clumsiness.
“What happened to keeping this to ourselves?” He wrapped an arm around my waist.
I pursed my lips. “I don’t think I care anymore. Do you?”
“I don’t think I do, either, since I didn’t care in the first place.”
He went to kiss me but I had the tiniest amount of responsibility left, and climbed off his lap. I straightened my polo shirt. Time to do my job. Or something like that.
“What would you like tonight?” I pointed at the menu. “Or would you like the usual, sir?”
He tapped his pencil on the table. Uh oh. I hoped he wasn’t taking issue with my level of service. We couldn’t have that. I’d have to make sure to be extra nice later, or he might complain and get me in trouble. I wrote down his favorite burger-and-fries combo and walked away, making sure to sway my hips since I could feel his eyes watching me.
After handing off the order, I floated between the register and helping with the weekly cleaning in the kitchen. I dropped Ash’s food off at his table, and he took the opportunity to sneak another caress of my wrist. Later, when I gave him his check, he wrote his phone number down on it. Did he think I was that easy, lusting after any attractive customer that came my way?
No, just a particular one I happened to adore from my head to my toes.
Helen came out of the kitchen humming as I rang up the last couple of the night. She waited until the doorbell announced the couple’s departure, and said, “That’s the type you keep,” nodding toward Ash.
I restacked the business cards and brochures around the cash register. “Keep where? In my pocket?”
She propped her hip against the counter. Ash quickly looked down at his sketchbook. She chortled at him. A blush intensified on my face.
“You know what I mean,” she said. “The whole dining room is practically on fire. I caught that little stumble of yours earlier, by the way.”
“I’m sorry. I can ask him to leave.”
“Would you quit apologizing for everything?” She clicked her tongue. “What you guys have is special, that’s all I’m saying. Don’t let anyone take it from you.”
“Yes.” I fussed over a stack of brochures for a vineyard. I didn’t even realize I’d spoken it out loud until the words left my lips. “But for how long?”
“Is that what has your panties in a wad? We could all drop dead tomorrow from a giant meteor hitting the earth.” She glanced over her shoulder to make sure he was watching, and raised her gravelly voice. “And you’re worried about how long something good’s going to last?”
Ash peeked up from his sketch, and mouthed “She’s right” from across the room. I sighed. It was a conspiracy at this point. Both of them were out to get me. What had I done to deserve them?
She checked the time. “What do you know? It’s time for you to get out of here.”
No, it wasn’t. I had another fifteen minutes to go.
“Looks that way, does it?” I said.
“Go!” She shooed me away. “I’ll see you later. Actually, I better see you later.”
I grabbed my bag. Across the empty room, Ash closed his sketchbook and pocketed his pencils. I went over to him, and when he stood up, I took his hand in mine. He flicked a glance down at our clasped hands, and lifted them to his lips and pressed a soft kiss on my fingertips. The bruises on his knuckles had begun to fade away.
Ash had never told me where they came from. If my suspicions were true, Ash had gone after the smelly wannabe rocker from the other night who’d hit on me. The one who’d probably whined to Jerry.
“Ash, what happened to your hand?” I asked. “I’d like to know.”
His grin slipped and recovered. “Don’t worry about it.”
While he picked up his messenger bag, I drew in a slow breath behind his back. He didn’t trust me enough to tell me. But if I left next weekend, he never would start trusting me again, either. He straightened up as I fixed a cheerful smile on my face.
“How was your night?” Ash asked. “When you weren’t shamelessly flirting with some of the customers?”
“Some of the customers seemed to appreciate the attention.” I batted my lashes at him. “But this was my last night helping out. I’m free to spend the rest of my week here with you.”
Chapter Seventeen
Monday
The lights of downtown twinkled through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Ash’s loft. The golden glow of the Terminal Tower set it apart from the white lights of the skyscrapers as we sprawled together on his couch. He’d insisted I stay the night at his place tonight, and I hadn’t exactly put up much resistance over the idea.
His head rested on my stomach. We were obsessed with being as physically close to each other as possible, as if we each feared the other would disappear at any moment. It couldn’t possibly be healthy, but what did we know about how healthy, functional relationships worked? And this wasn’t exactly a relationship. I didn’t know what to exactly call it.
I tousled his hair, admiring how the dark chocolate waves contrasted quite well with the snowy white shirt sleeve hanging loosely on my arm. Swiping that shirt had been the first thing on my agenda when we arrived at the loft. Once that had been accomplished, the next item on the agenda was just to enjoy being with him.
Six days to go before my father showed up and I was supposed to leave. Plenty of time to figure everything out. Maybe. Probably not. A year hadn’t been enough.
“I need to tell you something.” Ash’s shoulders and upper back muscles flexed as he rolled to his side, wedging himself between my side and the back cushion. He’d given up on wearing t-shirts while I was around.
I attempted to mold his hair into a fluffy pompadour. This would be easier if he would cooperate and stay still. “I’m listening.”
“I took tomorrow off. The gallery is having an exhibit for rising artists next week, and I’m going to be busy working the rest of this week helping put it together.”
“That’s cool.” I wound a lock around my finger, catching the light scent of his hipster organic rosemary and mint shampoo.
“So you’re completely fine with not seeing me for the next three days?”
“What?” I’d clearly missed an important part of this conversation. “Say that again now that I’m paying attention.”
“You just admitted you weren’t listening.”
“I was listening!” I waved my hands in the air. “I said I wasn’t paying attention. Two very distinct things.”
“Fine, now that you’re paying attention.” His hand went to the back of his neck. “It’s a big event and we’re going to be working late to get everything ready. The media’s involved because of all the young artists featured.”
“Oh.” I shouldn’t have been disappointed. His internship was more important. But his demeanor made me curious. “Are any of your pieces going to be there?”
“Because I was thinking we should go out and do something for the day—”
“You’re changing the subject!” I lifted myself by my elbows. “You’re part of the ex
hibit, aren’t you?”
“Yes, but it’s next week,” he explained, caution reading in his eyes. “You’re leaving, so you don’t need to worry about it.”
I lay back down on the couch, the buttery leather warm under my legs. On the high ceiling, shadows from the living room lamp patterned the ductwork, dulling the texture of the polished metal. I didn’t exactly have to leave on Sunday. It wasn’t like I was on a deadline, other than my implied one.
“I would love to see some of your finished pieces.” My mouth felt full of dust, irrationally afraid he would reject me, but I went on. “Maybe I could possibly stay a bit longer? I could go with you when it opens.”
He glanced away to the lights of the bridge over the Cuyahoga River. “You don’t have to change your plans for me.”
“Forget about it then,” I said, as breezily as I could manage.
I deserved to be blown off considering all the shit I’d pulled. Plus, it would be unfair to expect him to follow along with my erratic thought processes and half-truths. I had said I was supposed to leave in a week and let him assume I meant it, when I wished for something else entirely.
My heart didn’t agree with my justifications as tears scalded the back of my throat. He didn’t want me to stay with him. I swung my legs off the sofa and sat up.
I fastened and unfastened the top button of the shirt. I didn’t blame him, but I couldn’t let him see that I was upset. My work clothes were on the floor near the king-sized platform bed on the other side of the loft. I moved to launch myself off the sofa.
“Stop.” He covered my chest with his arm. “I didn’t realize how it would sound when I said it.”
“It was a stupid idea.”
“It was a wonderful idea, until I ruined it.” He grasped my hand. “Don’t leave. Stay with me for at least a few minutes so we can talk?”
My hand twitched under his fingers. I couldn’t keep running away if I wanted him to trust me again. I wanted to be better at all of this, whatever it was. “Okay.”
He sighed. “Do you have the sketchbook where your tattoo design on your wrist came from?”
I chewed on the sensitive skin of my cheek. He’d left it at my house last summer and I took it with me even though I knew how private he was about his art. I stared at the backpack unconsciously. I carried that sketchbook everywhere with me in my hiking backpack, but admitting that would be more proof of how unabashedly sentimental I was when it came to him. Ash slid his arm off of me, letting me go. I stood up and walked over to retrieve the spiral-bound notebook. I held it out to him.
“No, keep it.” He swore under his breath. “For right now. I mean—shit. If you want to.”
He moved restlessly to the windows as I sat back down on the sofa. My spine ramrod straight, I gripped the sketchbook on my lap. Hand-drawn Escheresque mazes decorated the ivory sketchbook cover. I traced over the lines, their symmetry reassuring. Sometimes we were at total ease with each other. Other times we circled around each other, afraid of making the wrong move or saying the wrong thing. This was one of those times.
“See!” Ash paced in front of the windows. “That’s what I’m talking about. You didn’t start looking through it immediately in front of me.”
That’s because I had pored over the pages plenty of times. “Maybe I should just get dressed—”
“Wait.” He raked his hands through his hair, leaving it to stand up on end. “I’m handling this badly. You’re not the only one who has issues with communication.”
I narrowed my eyes. At least I was making an effort. “Now you’re definitely not winning any points.”
“I know! I’m screwing this all up, too.” He shoved his hands in his pockets. “I’m so very sorry I made you feel like I didn’t want you to stay. Please believe me, I really would fucking love it if you would stay for a little longer, even if we don’t go to the gallery.”
“So it’s not that you don’t want me to stay. You don’t want me to go to the gallery…” Some of the heaviness to my heart returned. He didn’t want me to see his paintings publicly displayed. Fine with strangers seeing it, but not me.
“I do want you to go!” He hunched his shoulders and paused longer than necessary. “And then I don’t.”
Or this wasn’t about me at all. His lack of confidence was strangely new and a little endearing. “I’m starting to understand.”
“What?”
“That I’m not the only one who sucks at communication.” I tipped my head to the side. “You may actually be worse than me at the moment.”
He barked out a short laugh and then knelt down at my feet. “Open it up.”
I flipped it open to a random page. On it, nothing came across as an identifiable image, just a mass of swirling lines and compelling shadows. It gave the impression of desolation and fury. In fact, it was like that on almost every page, except for one.
“No, that one’s awful, there are better ones in there.” He moved to turn the page.
I slapped his hand. “It’s one of my favorites.”
“No, it’s not,” he said, audibly grinding his teeth together.
“You’re not the boss of me.” I combed a wild strand of hair away from his high forehead. “If I say it is, then it is.”
He met my eyes briefly, and then looked back down at the page. “It’s dark. Everything I do is dark. It’s like I can’t help myself.”
“The dark doesn’t scare me.”
“That’s what you say now.” He turned the pages. I let him this time. “What I was trying, poorly, to explain is you never pushed me to show all of this to you. You’d tease me about it, but other than that, you never said anything. You also never made me feel guilty about it. You just accepted it.”
I wrinkled my nose. “Why would I make you feel guilty?”
He continued as if I hadn’t spoken. “You don’t use it as a weapon against me or try to use it for your own advantage. And you’ve always acted like I’m this wonderful, talented artist as if it was a foregone conclusion. Without seeing anything.”
He stopped flipping the pages. “And I wanted to be that person for you, but if I showed you anything before, you’d figure out that I wasn’t.”
But he was a wonderful, talented artist. He didn’t need to prove it to me. There were certain truths I accepted without question. Gravity existed to keep us grounded. The sun still rose every morning wherever you were. And he was a great artist with an amazing future ahead of him. I was perfectly fine with this line of logic.
“People had to have seen your portfolio and know you have the talent. And if you’re already in an exhibit—”
“But they’re not you.” It was his turn to brush the hair out of my eyes. He tucked a strand of my hair behind my ear. “It doesn’t matter what they think.” He stared at the sketchbook. “I’d love for you to go with me. Really. You just caught me by surprise, and I reacted in the wrong way.”
I followed his gaze. It was the page where my tattoo design came from. A sketch of my wistful face, softly blowing away dandelion seeds. The date of our first kiss was written in his distinctive handwriting at the bottom corner. I’d had the tattoo artist recreate the dandelion portion on my wrist so I could always remember, too. I rested my arm on top of the page, showing him the tattoo. He traced the outline of the flower. I moved my arm away before he reached the scars. I wasn’t ready to tell him where they came from. Not yet. But maybe I should just let go and let things happen. Just maybe everything else would fall into place—if I was brave enough to try again.
“Sorry, and I hate to tell you this.” I leaned over as his eyes widened. “It’s going to take a lot more than one night at an art gallery to change my mind about you.”
“You’re sorry?” He began to smile as the regret cleared from his expression. A slow, sexy smile. “I thought I was the one who was supposed to be apologizing?”
“Didn’t you do that already?” I matched his smile.
“I don’t think it was enough f
or the seriousness of my crime.” His hands went to the top button of my shirt, and then the next one after that. “I should pay for my transgressions, and I have some experience in the type of apologies you like.”
My shirt parted and Ash bent his head to the hollow of my throat, his hands reaching inside to stroke my curves. My heart beat faster, approving of his way of making amends. He murmured atonements into my skin while traveling down to the softness of my stomach. The farther down he moved, the more ridiculous they became.
“I am especially sorry to this beautiful circle of magnificence, this resplendent dent,” he whispered into my belly button.
I giggled. “What exactly are you doing? Complimenting body parts until you get the answer you want?”
“Yes, I’m waiting for an extremely enthusiastic version of”—he pitched his voice higher, the words tickling my navel—“‘Oh. Oh, God. Oh, my God! Oh, my fucking God!’”
“I don’t sound like that!” I tumbled to the hardwood floor with an ungraceful thump.
“You’re not taking my apology very seriously.”
I pushed snarled curls out of my face and beamed. “I don’t always feel very serious when I’m around you.”
“And how do you feel around me?” His hazel eyes danced, his beautiful smile crooked on his lips.
Every cell in my body hummed. I could stare into his face for hours. I was that far gone, it had never changed and I didn’t think it ever would. The words refused to come, though, so I used the closest word I could think of. “Safe.”
“What?” He sat back on his heels.
“You make me feel safe.” I wondered if he knew how much that meant to me.
He dropped his eyes from mine, a brief bittersweet wave of sadness passing over his face. I hadn’t given him the answer he wanted, but one day I would. I just needed more time. But I could always show him my feelings in another way.
Cotton glided smoothly down my back as I shrugged out of his shirt. I kneeled before him, naked except for a pair of black satin bikini panties. He spread his thighs wide to let me move closer, the denim of his jeans straining with the movement.
