He looks so good.
He always looks good, but it’s been an entire day and a half since I’ve seen him.
He really is that beautiful. Those strong shoulders and inked arms aren’t figments of my sexual fantasies. They’re all him.
“Hey.” He nods hello from his suite, the one on the right, next to the window.
“You’re here early.”
“I’m always this early.”
“No. Just usually.” I pull my arms over my chest. How can I be hot and cold at the same time? It defies explanation.
His eyes find mine. “You want my hoodie?”
My toes tap together. My tongue slides over my lips. Ryan offers his hoodie almost every day. And I always say yes.
But not because I’m cold—my cardigan is in my purse, and it looks a hell of a lot better with this outfit.
Because it smells like him.
Because it’s his.
He bends to pull it from his backpack. His fingers brush mine as he hands it over.
It’s black, of course.
His entire world is black—his jeans, his t-shirt, his backpack, his car, his sketchbook, his pens, his attitude toward humanity.
You’d think the whole constant brooding, still not over his ex thing would be enough to convince me to stay away.
Not that I’ve ever had good taste in men.
I fell for the wrong guys for so long that I gave up on guys entirely.
Then I met Ryan.
And I tried to get over him. Really. When I started working here, he was still with Penny. I’m a lot of things, but I’m not a home-wrecker.
I had no intentions of stealing him from her.
I have no intentions of claiming him.
He’s been single for a year now. We’ve been friends all that time. More.
But that’s all we are.
That’s all we’ll ever be.
I’m okay with that. Really, I am.
Being his friend is a lot better than being his nothing.
I slide his hoodie over my shoulders. Turn as I inhale the scent of him. Lemon soap, rubbing alcohol (the shop reeks of it), and something distinctly Ryan.
“You want coffee?” he asks.
“I can do it.”
“Sit. I’ll fix it.”
“If you tell me why you’re frowning.”
“I’m not frowning.” His lips press into a smile. It’s genuine. It lights up his eyes. Softens his brow.
God, he has a nice smile. “Okay, why you were frowning.”
He shrugs like nothing has ever bothered him before—a hard claim for anyone to make.
But for someone as broody as Ryan? There’s no way he’s selling that.
He motions to the Keurig in the lobby. “It’s happening.”
“I have to restock it.”
“Already did it.”
I bite my lip. He does this all the time—gets to the shop early or stays late, does my job for me.
It’s nice, having less to do. It frees up my time. Lets me focus on graphic design instead of busywork.
But—“That’s my job.”
He shrugs. “I was here.”
“Thanks.” I guess.
He crosses the room and fills a pod with French roast.
The smell of coffee fills the room as I set up. Purse under the counter. Computer on. Come In, We’re Awesome sign turned. Schedule printed.
He sets my coffee on the counter along with one container of half-and-half and another of Sugar in the Raw.
“Thanks.” I tear the fixings, pour, stir. Mmm. Sweet, creamy, rich perfection. “You’re weird today.”
“I’m always weird.”
“True.” But he’s being extra weird. “You miss karate or something?”
“Aikido.”
“You realize you’re the only person who cares about the difference.”
“It’s my cross to bear.” His voice stays dry.
But the joke still warms me everywhere. Ryan hides his sense of humor from most people.
I get it.
I get that side of him.
I get so much of him.
But, still, my heart wants more. Even if my head knows better.
I take another long sip. There’s something in those baby blues, something hurting him, but he isn’t going to tell me.
He isn’t the sharing feelings type.
Not that I can talk.
My heart is locked up tight. It’s easier that way. Safer.
You can’t fall for guys who pretend they love you if you keep them at arm’s length.
You can’t buy into yet another I’ll change, I promise if you don’t believe in someone in the first place.
And you’ll never, ever suffer the rejection of being someone’s second choice, if you don’t care about being first.
Yes, I’m crazy about Ryan.
Yes, we’re best friends.
We hang out. We run. We mock bad TV and eat dinner and tease each other about how we fix our coffee.
We don’t pour our hearts out.
“You sure you’re okay?” I ask.
His gaze goes to the bright blue sky outside the windows then it’s back on me. “I’ll get there.”
“You want to talk about it?”
“Maybe later.”
My stomach twists. That’s a no.
I hate that he won’t let me in.
I hate that I don’t get every thought in his head.
I hate that he isn’t mine.
But I’m not about to unlock the vault around my heart.
How can I ask him to do the same?
“You’re what?” Dean’s voice echoes around the room. It’s free of his usual aren’t I an adorable troublemaker? tone. He’s genuinely concerned.
That’s weird. And worrisome. Dean only drops the pretenses when shit is bad.
And with that way Ryan’s shoulders are at his ears…
This is bad.
I’m quitting the shop and moving to Siberia; it’s the only place as cold as my soul bad.
I take a deep breath and exhale slowly.
There’s no way he’s leaving.
That’s absurd.
I try to focus on the computer screen. To actually finish double-checking these records. To pretend as if I’m not eavesdropping.
I fail.
My gaze stays on Ryan’s back.
He runs a hand through his wavy hair.
He shrugs, completely failing at aloof. “You’re invited too.”
“Fuck.” Dean’s sandy hair falls over his bright eyes as he shakes his head. “She’s such a bitch.”
“Don’t talk about her like that.”
“I’ll say it as much as I want.” Dean steps sideways, into the lobby. “Penny is a bitch.”
Ryan’s brow furrows as he turns and follows Dean. “I said I’m going, not ‘I’d like your opinion.’”
“You’re not going.”
“Yeah, I am.”
Ryan is going somewhere. Doing something Dean objects to.
But Dean doesn’t object to anything.
Unless—
Fuck.
Dean continues. “All right. Go. Get wasted. Stand up in the middle of the ceremony and scream ‘here’s a reason why these two can’t wed. Because she fucked him behind my back. And what the hell do you think that means for you, Francis? You think she’s gonna be loyal to you after that?’ Then drop the mic, get wasted, sleep with a bridesmaid, and come home the victor.”
“Fuck off.”
“You’re gonna make a fool of yourself either way. Might as well do it right.”
“She thinks I’m not over her,” Ryan says.
“All you’re gonna do is prove you care enough about her opinion to drop two grand on plane tickets and a hotel in Maui.”
Penny’s getting married.
And Ryan’s going.
What the hell is he doing going to his ex’s wedding?
And what the hell is he do
ing telling Dean instead of me?
Ryan’s black-on-black Converse squeak against the hardwood floor as he takes a step toward the counter.
Dean shakes his head what the hell is wrong with this guy. “If you show up single, she’ll think you’re a loser.”
“He’s right.” The words tumble from my lips. So much for pretending I’m not eavesdropping. But this is my business. Ryan is my best friend. I care about him more than anyone does.
Ryan shakes his head kids today. “I’m not showing up single.”
Dean laughs. “You didn’t—”
Ryan turns back to him. “I’m still not interested in your opinion.”
“Yeah. You are.” Dean shakes his head you’re an idiot for this. “Or you wouldn’t have brought it up.”
“I was letting you know my schedule.” Ryan slides his hand into the front pocket of his black skinny jeans.
“It’s sweet. You care.” Dean presses his hands to his heart—he’s the opposite of Ryan, in his bright blue t-shirt, light jeans, and navy and white checkered Vans—and feigns catching a hug. “You can admit it.”
“Right back at you,” Ryan says.
I laugh. “He’s got you there.”
“Love you too, babe.” Dean blows me a kiss. He laughs as he turns to Ryan. “Have I ever told you not to do something?”
“Well…” Ryan brushes another wavy lock behind his ear. Again, it fails to stay in place. It falls to his cheek. Frames his blue eyes in a perfect shade of brown. “She thinks I’m never gonna move on.”
“You aren’t,” Dean says.
“Fuck off.” Ryan moves forwards. Until he’s only a few feet away.
His eyes find mine.
They fill with vulnerability. Then he blinks, and his expression is steel again.
“You really told her you’re bringing someone?” Dean asks.
Ryan’s shoulders climb to his ears. “Not someone.” He tries to keep his voice even, but he doesn’t quite get there. “My girlfriend.”
Dean shakes his head harder. Fuck, you’re stupid. “You don’t even look at chicks. Where are you gonna find a girlfriend?”
“I’ll do it.” Words leap from my throat.
I do nothing to stop them.
I’m powerless to stop them.
This is crazy. But it’s also perfect.
I press my lips into a smile. A calm this is a great idea smile, not a lovesick anything to be close to you one. “I’ll go to Penny’s wedding. I’ll pretend I’m your girlfriend.”
Ryan’s eyes fix on me.
It’s not a good look.
It’s not a yes.
It’s not even a that’s a ridiculous idea, but points for trying.
More like a not in a million years.
But it’s not over until it’s over.
Chapter 4
Ryan
No.
Fuck no.
A million times no.
Leighton is better than this bullshit.
I need to be better than this bullshit.
I stare into my best friend’s blue-green eyes, but I can’t find her intentions.
Hawaii is gorgeous. I get that. Penny used to mock me for wanting to go someplace so “basic” for our honeymoon. The insult never made sense.
Basic is good.
Simple is good.
Easy is good.
Fuck knows I need easy.
Like me and Leighton.
Our friendship is easy.
So what the hell is with her intense stare?
Nobody wants to see the Aloha State that badly.
I shake my head. “I don’t want shit to get weird.”
My brother looks from me to her. He tries out that shit-stirring smile of his, but it doesn’t land.
He’s worried about her.
This is a stupid idea.
It must be the worst idea in the history of the planet if Dean’s concerned. The only thing he’s serious about is work. Even then, he pretends like everything he does is effortless.
“Yeah. Right. Of course.” She twirls a short, purple strand around her finger. “But what if it didn’t make things weird?”
“How could it not?”
“It’s just acting.” She taps the counter with her shiny silver fingernails. “I was Abigail Williams in The Crucible. I’ve performed more difficult roles.”
“More difficult than pretending you can tolerate Ryan?” Dean’s voices jumps back to bouncy. “Is that possible?”
“Not for most,” she teases. “But I’m a true thespian.”
“This is getting interesting.” He motions go on.
She rolls her eyes. “Are you fourteen? Even you are better than that.”
I shake my head. “He’s not.”
His smile jumps back to playful as he flips me off.
Leighton laughs. Her eyes find mine. They’re greener today. It must be that purple makeup. Or the teal and black cat-print dress. “I, uh. I do agree with Dean. It’s a stupid idea. But if you’re going to do it, you might as well do it with someone you trust.”
It’s a fair point.
But it’s not enough.
There are only three times my world brightens: when I’m doing a tattoo, when I’m working out, and when I’m with her.
I’m not risking that.
Not for something as stupid as proving I’ve moved on.
I stare into her eyes. “I’ll find a way to call it off.”
She nods sure, but her expression screams you won’t.
My client shows. I sit her down, clean her up, talk her through the first line of the day.
The world fades away as I fall into the piece—an epic sleeve of produce. This girl loves fruits and vegetables so much she wants them on her body forever.
It’s weird in a charming way.
She’s going against the grain.
Same way I did when I first walked into a tattoo shop. I never managed to please my parents, no matter how hard I tried. My B.A. in business is useful (not that I’d ever admit that to them), but it didn’t do anything to get them off my back.
I started apprenticing halfway through college. I always wanted to do tattoos but as soon as I actually put ink to skin—a spade on my ankle—I fell in love.
This is where I belong.
This is the place where everything makes sense.
Always.
For three hours, I work to the buzz of that gun and the breathy groan of Leighton’s favorite band.
Technically, no one is in charge of music. Technically, me, Dean, Walker, and Brendon each own a quarter of the shop.
We each get a quarter of the say.
Really, I’m the boss and Brendon is second in command. I do the books, I make the schedule, and I veto the music.
Only I let her listen to whatever.
It’s not altruistic.
I love the way she hums along with the music, tapping her toes, smiling as she swoons over some damaged lyricist.
Hell, it’s not just her reaction.
I love her miserable taste.
It’s comforting. Somebody else out there is as fucked-up as I am.
Thousands of screaming women adore this singer for all the pain in his breathy, raspy voice.
They love that he’s hurt.
They want to save him.
I guess I’m still a romantic at heart.
Deep down, I still believe in all that shit. Even if my head knows better.
The album shifts to the next as my appointment ends. I walk my client out, schedule our next session.
Leighton is still sitting behind the counter. She’s staring at something on her laptop, humming the melody of the angsty anthem flowing through the shop.
We have an understanding. As long as she does everything she needs to do for Inked Hearts, she’s free to use her time to work on whatever.
Like homework for her summer school class.
Her eyes flit from her computer. “Unless you’re abou
t to show off my first-class ticket to Hawaii, save it. This is due at midnight.”
“The design?”
She nods. “Design 201.” Her eyes fix on the screen. She adjusts something with her mouse. “I don’t see tickets.”
“Leigh—”
“It won’t be weird. But suit yourself.” Her brow furrows as she leans back. Takes in the design again. She bites her lip.
I know that look.
It’s almost there.
But something is off.
“Let me see,” I say.
“It’s not done.”
“That’s why I can help.”
Her eyes meet mine. She stares at me, assessing my intentions.
I don’t get it. I don’t fuck with her the way Dean does. I don’t play everything cool the way Walker does. I… all right, according to Leighton, I “brood all over the place,” even more than Brendon does.
But I don’t do it at her.
I’m always clear about what I want.
“It’s not good enough,” she says.
Unlikely. Leighton is amazing. A better designer than I am. She does all the shop’s graphics. She slays them, but she never takes credit.
I press my palm against the counter. Stretch my fingers. I love this job like my life depends on it, but it’s too sedentary. I need to move. “I’m gonna go for a run. If you don’t want help—”
“I do. Thank you.” She turns the laptop to me to show off a green on white logo design. Health Express. “It’s a fictional fast casual restaurant. I want it to look healthy. Is the green too obvious?”
“Obvious is good.”
Her shiny silver nails tap the counter. “You… you aren’t saying anything.”
“It’s good.”
“Good?”
“Yeah.”
“Just good?”
“Great.”
“But?”
She taps the counter with her pointer finger. “Something’s missing.”
“I know that. I need to know what.”
I blink. Stare with fresh eyes. It’s a great design. Bold. Classic. But too busy. “Pick one, the eggplant or the name.”
“No name? All eggplant. Is that really—”
I chuckle. “That’s what you’re going for.”
“I’m not sure what you mean.” She plays coy. “It’s a simple vegetable.”
“That’s shaped like a dick.”
“Never considered that.” She holds her poker face for a few moments.
Pretend You're Mine Page 2
