It cracks.
Her laugh bounces around the room, drowning out every other sound.
I can’t help but smile. It feels so fucking good, seeing her like this. “Send it to me tonight. After you revise it.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. I’ll let you know what I think.”
“Thanks.”
There’s nothing left to say, but I don’t want to tear myself away from her. I want to linger at the counter, helping her with the design, teasing her about her taste in broken musicians, talking about nothing.
But there’s something in her expression.
Something that says leave me alone.
So I do.
With every stride, my thoughts unfurl. The messy lines straighten. Arrange themselves in order.
Fail to offer clarity.
Bringing some woman to Penny’s wedding is a terrible idea.
Pretending she’s my girlfriend is worse.
But there’s this voice in my head screaming you have to do this.
My phone buzzes against my thigh. I tell that voice to quiet and wish for distraction.
Leighton: It’s done. Just emailed you. Tell me it’s not horrible.
Ryan: On a run. I’ll check it out after I shower.
Leighton: It’s a million degrees.
Ryan: And?
Leighton: Are you dying?
Ryan: Yeah.
Leighton: You are not. You walk in here like you’re fresh from a shower after half your runs.
I snap a picture of my surroundings—the ocean, the Santa Monica pier, the busy Venice street, the bright lemon sun—then I turn my phone to selfie mode, and snap a picture of my sweaty shirt.
It’s hot as hell today.
But I don’t feel the embrace of the sun. I don’t see the brightness. I know it’s there—I always end these runs dripping sweat—but I miss the comfort of it.
Ever since that day I walked in on Penny under Frank, I struggle to find the comfort in anything. Drowning my thoughts in work, booze, or exercise is as good as it gets.
Besides Leighton.
But that—
I’m not thinking about that.
I send her the photo.
Leighton: Barely sweating.
Ryan: I went nine miles.
Leighton: How can I get some of this infinite endurance?
Ryan: Join me next time.
Leighton: You’re too fast.
Ryan: I’ll slow down. Call it a rest day.
Leighton: Asshole.
Ryan: You just figuring that out?
Leighton: It’s a constant revelation.
I can’t help but smile. There’s something about the way she teases me. It warms me the way the sun used to.
I slip my cell into my pocket, fill my bottle at the nearest fountain, run the half a mile back to Venice, then the twenty blocks to my apartment.
A hot shower washes away the day, but it’s not enough.
The invitation is still sitting on my desk.
Without my contacts, it’s a blur of white and silver. An anonymous reason for celebration.
When I slide my glasses on, the words come into focus.
You are cordially invited to the wedding of Penelope Winters and Francis Hobbs.
It’s still happening.
There’s still no way I can stomach it alone.
And it’s still a terrible idea finding a fake girlfriend.
I am gonna figure this out. Somehow.
I push it aside as I pull up Leighton’s design on my laptop.
It’s perfect.
I grab my cell and shoot her a text.
Ryan: Fucking amazing.
Leighton: There’s nothing you’d change?
Ryan: Nothing.
My chest warms. It feels good, helping Leighton. Everything feels good with Leighton.
There’s no way I’m risking that.
I let the thought bounce around my brain as I prep dinner—a simple, sautéed lemon chicken.
Usually cooking calms me. But, today, it isn’t working.
Memories of Penny threaten to flood my mind. Her standing in the kitchen, in her ironic pink and white apron, joking about how she’s a perfect homemaker.
That smile as she perfected penne arrabiata.
The intense look in her honey eyes as she watched me take my first bite.
She’s been in the corner of my mind for the last year and change. She’s been a ghost in my thoughts. A watermark on a perfect photo.
There.
But easy to ignore.
Now, with that fucking invitation sitting on my desk—
A million memories of her crash together.
I’m sorry, but I don’t love you anymore. It echoes around the silent room.
I plug my cell into the knockoff iHome. Boot up one of Leighton’s most miserable playlists.
Penny drifts from my thoughts as heavy guitar fills the room.
I only see Leighton’s plum smile. Her blue-green eyes crinkling as she laughs. Her hand on her hip as she defends the song from Brendon’s “I’m not listening to that emo shit” complaints.
I finish cooking. Place the chicken on a salad. Drizzle it with oil and vinegar.
It’s not gourmet, but it’s my hard work.
That makes it perfect.
My phone buzzes as I bring my plate to the dining table.
Leighton: I hear Hawaii is beautiful in August.
Ryan: Don’t.
Leighton: At least think about it.
Ryan: I am.
Penny’s wedding owns my thoughts.
I’d kill to erase it from my mind.
But Leighton—
What the hell does she get out of this?
Ryan: This is all for Hawaii?
Leighton: You don’t know how badly I want to zip line.
Ryan: When did zip lining become part of it?
Leighton: You think I’m gonna go all the way to Maui and not do everything I ever wanted to do there?
Ryan: Don’t make me say no again.
Leighton: Okay. Fine. But I want to state, for the record, that you won’t find anyone better.
Ryan: Agree.
Leighton: And that it won’t make things weird.
Ryan: You agreed to drop it.
Leighton: Okay. Dropping it. I should go soon. I have class at eight.
Ryan: You get up early enough to get somewhere at eight?
Leighton: Go to hell.
Ryan: Already there.
Leighton: Well that takes the sting out of hurting you.
Is she pissed or teasing?
I don’t know. I never do with her. With the guys, it’s easy. They annoy me all the time, but it’s ’cause they wear their irritation on their sleeve.
Ryan: Why are you taking that class?
Leighton: You gave me shit all spring about how I should go back to college and now you’re asking me why I’m taking this class?
Ryan: You’re better than this 201 shit.
Leighton: Maybe. But it’s a requirement if I want to do a design program at any UC or Cal State.
Ryan: You could skip that. Charge for your shit. It’s good.
Leighton: Not that good.
Ryan: It is. Trust me. I know what I’d pay for your designs.
Leighton: Doing Facebook graphics isn’t a career.
Ryan: It is. But you do a lot more. Logos. Websites. Book covers. You could do any of it.
Leighton: Well…
Ryan: Well?
Leighton: Can you keep a secret?
Ryan: Who am I going to tell?
Leighton: True. Nobody else listens to you.
Ryan: Bane of my existence.
Leighton: I know.
I can’t help but laugh.
Leighton: I designed a cover for Kaylee’s book.
Ryan: It has a title?
Leighton: Something like “Forbidden.” I have one with that title. But my best mock-up is titled “I Love Fucking Brendon.”<
br />
Ryan: With a picture of him naked?
Leighton: If only I had one *sigh*
Ryan: You’re hot for him?
Leighton: Ew.
Ryan: You don’t find him attractive?
Leighton: He’s good-looking, yes. But I’m not interested.
Ryan: Why?
Leighton: He’s been in love with Kay the whole time I’ve known him.
Ryan: If he wasn’t?
Leighton: Hard to imagine. And I’m done with this subject. You want to see the cover or not?
Ryan: Yeah.
My phone flashes with a new picture message. A mock-up for Kaylee’s book.
The eighteen-year-old college student/aspiring author is Brendon’s girlfriend. He’s one of the co-owners, and the oldest guy at the shop after me.
It should be fucked-up—their eight year age difference, him being her best friend’s older brother—but it’s not.
They love each other.
Everything else is irrelevant.
My cell buzzes as two more mock-ups join the first.
One is a silly throw back—a buff, shirtless guy clutching a woman in a fancy dress.
The next image is simple. Forbidden carved into a black background, revealing the lush red rose beneath it. Kaylee Hart at the bottom in a simple sans font.
It’s beautiful. Something my mom would buy.
The third isn’t nearly as classy.
It’s a shirtless guy, from the waist up.
It’s—
Ryan: What am I doing on your book cover?
Leighton: Saving me the stock photo credit.
Ryan: What the fuck, Leigh?
Leighton: You have a certain something.
Ryan: Tattoos?
Leighton: Yeah. And something else.
Ryan: Abs?
Leighton: You’re proving my point.
Ryan: This is weird.
Leighton: Look at it again. Pretend it isn’t you.
Fuck that. There’s no way I belong on a book cover. Even if it’s a pointless mock-up. I have nine years of Penny complaining about our pics to prove that.
But when I blink, I see it. Not in some damn, look at my hot bod kind of way.
There’s an ache there. Not just exhaustion and sweat, but something else.
It’s like I’m screaming I’m never gonna be okay.
Ryan: Am I really this hopeless?
Leighton: Isn’t that what you’re going for?
No. I just don’t know how to be anything else.
Chapter 5
Leighton
My cell is flush with texts from Dean.
Dean: You’re not doing this.
Dean: It’s too stupid. Even for me.
Dean: He’s still in love with her.
Dean: He’s gonna break your heart without even realizing it.
Leighton: I want to help him.
Dean: You want to kiss him.
Leighton: It can be both.
Dean: No. It can’t. ‘Cause he doesn’t want to kiss you.
Leighton: Ryan’s your brother. You should look out for him.
Dean: I am. After he breaks your heart, you’ll leave, and he won’t have anyone.
Leighton: And you’ll miss me?
Dean: Don’t do this, Leigh.
Leighton: I’m not. He’s still saying no.
Dean: But you’ll convince him to say yes.
Leighton: How do you figure?
Dean: You convinced me to hire you.
Leighton: It wasn’t hard.
Dean: ‘Cause I was desperate to replace Ally. He’s desperate to prove this shit. Same deal.
Dean was a regular at Rock Bottom forever. We weren’t friends, exactly, but we were friendly. I knew he needed help. When he found out I needed a new job, he hired me right away.
At the time, I thought it was because he wanted to get in my pants.
But now…
Well, I’m still not exactly sure of his intentions.
Leighton: You can admit you’ll miss me.
Dean: Course I’ll miss you. You have great tits.
Leighton: You’ll miss me. Not my tits.
Dean: No, I’ll definitely miss your tits. That top you were wearing yesterday was ridiculous. They were about to pop out.
Leighton: Thanks?
Dean: You looked hot as fuck.
Leighton: And?
Dean: Did Ryan say anything about how he wanted to motorboat you?
Leighton: I’m rolling my eyes now.
Dean: Trust me, Leigh. Any normal guy looks at your boobs and thinks “I need to come on those.”
Leighton: You’re so gross.
Dean: And if Ryan pushed you against the wall and whispered “I want to come on your tits?”
My cheeks flush. I press my knees together. I, Uh…
Leighton: Your point?
Dean: He doesn’t want to fuck you.
Leighton: Okay. I’ll concede that. I’m not doing this to fuck him.
Dean: You have no idea what Penny and her friends are like. You don’t know what you’re getting into.
Leighton: I don’t care. I’m doing this.
Dean: You’re smarter than this.
Leighton: I’m doing it.
Dean: Promise you won’t leave if he breaks your heart.
Leighton: He won’t.
Dean: He will.
Leighton: No, he won’t.
Dean: Then it will be an easy promise to keep.
It’s bizarre seeing Dean worried.
But sweet.
I cross my fingers.
Leighton: Okay. I promise.
Usually, I love my design class. Today, it’s a slog. The lecture on typography goes in one ear and out the other. My thoughts are all tuned to Ryan.
To the possibility of kissing Ryan.
I try to pay attention by making him the centerpiece of my homework—a book cover, my favorite—but it isn’t enough to keep my head in the game.
The entire drive, I think of him. As I park and walk to the shop, I think of him.
As I enter the door, I think of him.
He’s thinking of me too.
Lunch is sitting on the counter. Grilled chicken and cherry tomatoes over arugula. A lemony vinaigrette on the side. Wonderful cool food for another sweltering July day.
Ryan nods hello. Motions to the salad.
“I can’t take your food.”
“Had my own.”
“Still.”
“Then don’t.” He disappears into his suite.
I sit at the counter and log into the shop computer. There isn’t much to do today. There isn’t much to do most of the time.
Technically, I work the counter. I help customers check out. I keep the shop clean, keep the schedule organized, keep the snacks stocked.
And, yes, I wear figure-flattering outfits that attract the attention and tip-money of our male clients.
The guys are plenty charming. They don’t need help extracting money from women.
Even Ryan… well, he is charming in that tortured bad boy kind of way.
Not that I actually think of him as a bad boy.
More that I’m acutely aware of the stereotypes of many of our customers. The clean-cut ones who want tattoos to show off their rebellious streak.
No judgment. I only have a little ink—the cherry blossom on my forearm, the cartoon dragon on my wrist, the Latin quote on my ribs.
alis volat propriis
She flies by her own wings.
It meant something to me when I got it.
Now…
It’s another ugly reminder of why I needed to ink encouragement onto my skin.
Of how impossible it is to trust anyone.
At least that convinced me to stop schilling booze. I’d never have quit bartending without extra motivation. The money was too good.
The money may be worse at Inked Hearts, but everything else is better.
I love this place. The big win
dows, the smell of the ocean air, the red and pink heart string lights, the friendly smiles from Walker, the paternal glances from Brendon (currently in his suite, working on some equally quiet guy’s tattoo), the dumb jokes from Dean.
And Ryan.
Everything from Ryan.
I keep half my attention on him as I catch up on bookkeeping. And lunch.
It’s amazing. Tender, crisp, lemony. The best lunch he’s made me in a while—he always brings me his leftovers.
I nearly inhale the food. Then I get back to work. Schedules. Social media. I don’t have to do much—even Ryan posts his work on Instagram regularly.
They make my job too easy.
I miss feeling needed. I’m sure it helps business, having a warm smile and a little cleavage behind the counter, but I want to be more than a prop.
I want to do work that uses my brain.
I love design, but I’m not good enough to strike out on my own. Not yet.
Maybe I’ll get there one day.
Until I do, I’m staying here.
The money is good. The company is great. So what if the work itself is boring? There’s more to life than creative fulfillment.
Besides, working on designs for myself is fulfilling in its own way.
After I double check everything twice, I pull up my laptop and start my homework: a flyer for a fictional concert.
There’s a ton of information to convey on one sheet of paper: three headlining bands, a dozen others, two charities supporting the event.
There must be some way to streamline it.
I play around with mock-ups until Ryan walks his client to the counter.
A cute Hispanic guy. Dark eyes, tan skin, devilish smile. Total fling material. If I had any interest in a guy who isn’t Ryan.
I flirt anyway. Help Ryan earn a forty percent tip.
He nods goodbye to his customer then turns to me. “Really?”
“Really?” I point to the tip on the receipt.
“You’re stealing my credit.”
“Show off your boobs. Steal it back.”
His chuckle is soft. “Aren’t you cold in that?”
My high-waisted shorts, key-hole white crop top combination is perfect for the eighty-degree weather outside. But in here? “Thank you. I’d love it if you turned down the AC.”
He shakes his head. No way is that happening. “How’s the homework?”
“Good. Thanks.”
“Show me.”
I check that the Ryan Maddox tab is closed, pull up the best mock-up, turn the computer to him. “What do you think?”
His gaze fixes on the screen. His brow knits with concentration. His hand slides into the front pocket of his black skinny jeans. “Good. Clean.”
Pretend You're Mine Page 3
