Merry Inkmas: A BWWM Romance

by Talia Hibbert

  She smiled.

  And then, of course, he ruined it.

  “What are you doing here?” He demanded, his gaze hardening. He glared at her as though she’d been spying, and shut his sketchbook closed with a snap. “You should’ve left already.”

  “Um… I was just checking that all the lights were off before I went.”

  “Why? I can do that. Before I lock up.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “Well, excuse me for helping. I won’t bother again.”

  “Bailey,” he sighed, “there’s no need to be dramatic.”

  Dramatic? Bailey’s temper rarely came out to play, but when it did, it tended to run away with her.

  She employed her most precise diction as she replied, taking care to make each consonant as sharp as could be—she didn’t want him to miss a single syllable. Her smile sweet and her words slow, Bailey said simply: “Go fuck yourself, Cash Evans.”

  As she turned on her heel, she saw his jaw drop from the corner of her eye. But he didn’t say a single thing in response as she stormed off.

  Fucking men. Bailey slammed the shop door behind her before trudging through the icy night. Her breath plumed in front of her face as she muttered to herself, jamming her frozen hands into her pockets.

  Give them a taste of sweetness and watch them come over all high and mighty. There wasn’t a man on earth who didn’t develop an attitude when he thought he could get away with it—she was convinced.

  The knowledge was hard-won, too: gained through watching her mother make a fool of herself for men who turned crueler the harder she pushed. There was one sure-fire way to turn a prince into a frog: show him a little kindness.

  Bailey wouldn’t fall into that trap again. Once someone viewed you as an object, every interaction was transactional—and the sad truth was that to most men, a woman could be nothing but an object. Maybe a trophy, maybe a childhood blanket, maybe a piece of rubbish. It made no difference. The bottom line was that she had to play their game. Every interaction was transactional.

  At the end of the day, most men were only good for one thing.

  She chanted under her breath, in time with the stamp of her feet against the pavement. “Remember that. Remember that. Remember that.”

  Chapter Eight

  On Sunday evening, Bailey knocked at John’s bland hotel door. When it swung open, Bailey held up her shopping bags, a wide smile on her face. “Knock knock, bitch!”

  “Ugh, it’s you.” John rolled his eyes. “I was hoping for the hot tattoo artist.” But then he broke into a smile of his own, and she knew he was glad to see her.

  “Boy, shut up.” She smirked as she pushed past him into the hotel room, dropping her bags on the table. “I come bearing gifts!”

  “Like I haven’t had a lifetime’s worth of Christmas blessings in the past few days.”

  She gave him a look before taking off her coat. “Look, here’s the phone. I got you a SIM too—”

  “Oh, Bailey.”

  “And some gingerbread.” He sat down next to her on the carpet as she emptied out her bags. “And a couple of Chocolate Oranges. They’re buy-one-get-one-free at Tesco’s. And some little mince pies, look, and a Christmas nibbles selection.”

  “Bailey.” He raised his brows as he surveyed the junk food. “This isn’t all for me, is it?”

  “Well…”

  “Let me guess: you’d be happy to help?”

  She giggled guiltily. “Only if you’ll have me.”

  “Of course I’ll have you! In fact, there’s lots we need to discuss…”

  John clambered onto the bed and arranged their feast while Bailey popped the room’s little kettle on.

  “The phone is just in time,” he grinned. “I have a very important number to put in it.”

  “Oh?” She added two sugars to John’s tea and one to her own, thinking happily about how much fuller his cheeks looked already, and the way his eyes sparkled.

  “Yep. My potential new boss.”

  “What?!” She came over to the bed, clutching the cups of tea.

  “Cash has sorted me an interview already!”

  “Seriously?”

  “And he’s taking me out to get a suit tomorrow.”

  Bailey handed John his cup before taking a sip of her own. She wasn’t sure what to make of this new information. Yes, she’d known that Cash was… Kind. But since the disaster of yesterday evening, she’d maintained the sort of frosty energy towards him that made it easy to forget he was capable of things like this.

  “You’re awfully quiet,” John murmured, breaking open the plastic tub of gingerbread. “I thought he might have mentioned it to you.”

  “Hm?”

  “You know.” He eyed her closely. “At work?”

  “Oh. Um… We don’t really talk much. I’m just the receptionist, and he’s some kind of tattoo god.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “You know I saw him in a magazine? Apparently, he spent years touring the world and tattooing celebrities and whatever.”

  “Really?” John considered that for a moment. “Makes sense. I knew he was loaded.”

  “Loaded?”

  “My instincts never lie. Which is also how I know that something’s going on between you two.”

  Bailey stared, flabbergasted. When a bite of mince pie threatened to fall out of her mouth, she finally clamped her jaw shut. “Oh, my God,” she frowned. “Nope. Sorry, man. The instincts are way off there.”

  “What’s that old quote about protesting too much?”

  “Shut up.”

  “You’re telling me you don’t want to smash him to smithereens?”

  Bailey almost choked on her own spit. “Shut up!”

  “All I’m saying is, you could do worse.” John lowered his gaze demurely, fiddling with his sleeves. Sometime in the last two days, he’d bought a pair of striped pyjamas. He looked unfairly adorable, considering he was such a demon.

  “I could not do worse than Cash Evans. Trust me on that.”

  “Hmmm,” John mumbled around a mouthful of gingerbread, spraying crumbs across his sheets. “I smell drama.”

  “Don’t speak with your mouth full.”

  “Drama waits for no man, or manners.”

  Bailey rolled her eyes. “I’ll admit, I thought he was cute, back when he used to come into the coffee shop. But you already knew that. Now I’m getting to know him better, he’s… Well. He’s hot and cold. I don’t like it. That shit’s manipulative.”

  John chewed thoughtfully before he answered—thank God. “Ordinarily I’d agree with you,” he said. “But I swear down, he might be the sweetest man I’ve ever met. He’s very ‘tortured artist’. You know?”

  “‘Tortured artist’ is code for ‘attractive arsehole’.”

  “Only when they’re faking it. Have you considered that he might have some genuine baggage?”

  Bailey shrugged. Truthfully, no; she hadn’t considered that at all. But it opened up a whole new world of potential problems.

  “I’m just saying. Everyone has baggage. Don’t you?”

  “Well… Yeah.” She admitted reluctantly.

  “But you’re still an amazing person. I think any man would be lucky to have you.”

  “Aw, John.” She slapped his skinny shoulder playfully. “Stop.”

  “And I’m sure you want to think that someone, somewhere, might be willing to help you through that baggage instead of letting it push them away.”

  The teasing smile slid off Bailey’s face as she considered that statement. She didn’t want that—did she?

  No. She didn’t want any man. Or at least, not in that way. Semi-regular hookups did her just fine, thank you very much. And for the all-too-often times that she couldn’t bear to go out on the hunt—to glam herself up and keep her mouth shut long enough to seduce a man—well. It was the 21st Century. Thank you, baby Jesus for the blessing of vibrators.

  Sure; every now and then, she might indulge i
n the odd romance novel. And she swooned over the growing intimacy, the heartfelt declarations, the intense adoration, just like anyone else. But that was a fantasy. It didn’t mean anything. Or at least, she might be able to convince herself of that, if it weren’t for the fact that she studied psychology. But Bailey knew better. Fantasies always meant something. The question was, what?

  “I suppose you might be right,” she murmured.

  “I usually am.”

  “Hm.” She put down the rest of her mince pie, her thoughts splitting into a thousand overwhelming pieces.

  “Just think about it, why don’t you?”

  As though she could do anything else.

  Chapter Nine

  John’s words continued to haunt her, but so did her own.

  Go fuck yourself, Cash Evans.

  She heard them every time she saw Cash around the shop, every time he asked her stiffly about appointments or she passed him the phone. They danced around each other like strangers for almost a week, and she spent her time off wondering how she’d ever come back from the gauntlet she’d thrown down.

  Not that he’d retaliated at all. Infuriating fucker.

  He just looked at her in that way of his, with those gleaming predator’s eyes. She developed a worrying obsession with cataloging his ink. He only ever wore T-shirts, so all she’d seen so far was the full sleeve on his right arm—which disappeared up under his clothing and spread down to his knuckles—and the piece on his left forearm. The former was an inverted landscape, from the cloudy night sky on his hand and wrist, rising up to black, jagged trees—bare of leaves—and then further into the earth, where gems and fossils hid. The latter was an underwater scene, featuring an octopus that wound its way around his thickly-muscled forearm. She studied the artwork covertly, drinking in snatches every time he passed by the front desk, lowering her gaze when he looked over at her.

  And when he was working, she rifled through the magazine she’d found on her first day at Fallen, reading the feature on him.

  He’d denied an interview—as was his habit, apparently. It was his social media presence, his direct and unassuming contact with clients and fans, that had propelled him into the spotlight. His distinctive style and undeniable skills had kept him there. His gorgeous face and bad boy charm had made him all his money.

  And he had a lot of money. The article took pains to make that clear. It mentioned something else, too: his mysterious, dark past, the details of which were largely unknown. The fact that his privacy was widely considered to hide an internal conflict that his art only hinted at. And his love for his family, his mother and sister. Apparently, the first major purchase he’d made with his newfound riches was a big old house for his mother in some quiet, country village.

  This knowledge highlighted the issue that was really getting under her skin: who the hell was Cash Evans? Because, for all her pseudo-stalking, Bailey could honestly say that she had no idea.

  A week after her night in with John, Bailey was just slipping in her earphones and opening her music app when his name flashed up on her caller ID. She grinned. His irreverence was just what she needed right now.

  “Night, guys,” Gem called as she and Steve left, heading for the pub, no doubt.

  “Night.” Bailey waved back absently. Then, accepting the call, she demanded, “Spill! Tell me all! Immediately!”

  “Give me a second woman, bloody hell!” John laughed down the phone, his broad, Northern vowels filling her ears. “You still at work?”

  “Are you still at work?” John had aced his interview, and today had been his very first day at his brand new job as an administrative assistant.

  “I just left,” he said smugly. “Working life, you know.”

  “Oh, yes, darling,” Bailey drawled jokingly. “Quite.”

  “Is Cash around?”

  At the mention of Cash’s name, Bailey felt her smile slip. “Um… I think so? Last I saw him, he was heading up to the office.”

  “Great. Go and get him! I need to tell both of you about this at once.”

  Bailey faltered, her mind working frantically to come up with some excuse. But she couldn’t let whatever petty issues lay between her and Cash ruin John’s big moment. With a resigned sigh, she slid off her chair and walked out from behind the welcome desk.

  “Alright,” she relented. “Give me a sec.”

  “Hurry up! I have so much to tell you, honestly.”

  “I bet, Mr… Mr Professional Man.”

  “Ah, Bailey. That razor-sharp wit never gets old.”

  “Shut up.” She jogged up the stairs and along the corridor, her nerves mounting at the sight of the closed office door. Taking a deep breath, she stepped towards the foreboding entrance…

  Only for the door to swing open, light spilling out for a fraction of a second before it was blocked by Cash’s large body. He stepped out into the hall, his movements as decisive as ever, and barrelled right into her.

  Bailey cried out as she stumbled back. Though she’d long since swapped sensible heels and skirt-suits for jeans and Converse, matching the casual style of her colleagues, her feet appeared determined to embarrass her.

  But just before she truly fell onto her arse, Cash’s big hands shot out to grab her. And, of course, he managed to get a firm handful of the biggest damn part of her. His fingers sank into her wide hips as he dragged her up against him, bringing her firmly into the safe zone of his body. Her hands rose automatically to press against his chest, broad and firm and hot beneath her palms.

  She took a moment to catch her breath, her head spinning. Hesitantly, she looked up… And found his mesmerising eyes on her. His lips parted as he stared at her like she was the biggest surprise of his life.

  “Bailey,” he said softly, his hands tightening around her.

  “Cash,” she breathed.

  “What the hell’s going on?!” John squawked in her ear.

  Fuck.

  Sharply, she stepped away from the tempting heat of Cash’s body, planting her feet firmly on the ground this time. Slapping a plastic smile onto her face, she pulled her phone out of her pocket and held it up to him, shaking it awkwardly as if to say ‘Ta-dah!’

  “Guess who I have on the phone?” She asked, her voice artificially light.

  Cash cleared his throat, the vulnerability in his expression disappearing like sunlight behind the clouds. He folded his arms and leaned against the doorway, his usual smirk firmly in place.

  “Let me think. John?”

  “How did you know?”

  “I can hear the screeching from here.”

  “Are you talking about me?” John demanded. “Put me on speaker!”

  Bailey rolled her eyes. “Wait a minute, will you?” And then, to Cash: “He wants to tell us both about his day at the same time.”

  “Very egalitarian,” Cash murmured. He turned and led her into the office, where Jay was working over at his desk in the corner. The younger man gave her a distracted nod before focusing on his laptop screen once more.

  “Keep the earphones in,” Cash said as he sat down. She perched on the edge of his desk, a quizzical frown on her face. Then he reached up and tugged one earphone from her ear. Quickly, she understood.

  Her heart suddenly thumping, she shuffled around until she was sat facing him, she on the desk, he in his chair. She leaned forward, face in her hands, elbows against her knees, until they were close enough to share. She could feel the heat of his breath brush past her cheek, but she kept her eyes down, which was a mistake. Had his thighs always looked so fucking good in a pair of jeans? And was that his—

  Nope. Nope, nope, nope. Bailey reigned in her rampant thoughts and focused on the conversation at hand.

  “Alright,” she said. “Cash is listening.”

  “Hey John,” Cash chimed in. “How was it?”

  “Oh, you’ll wish you never asked!” John launched into an excited play-by-play of his first day on the job, his enthusiasm contagious. As he gushed a
bout his experiences, Bailey found herself sharing more than just space and a phone with Cash. They laughed together, exchanging amused looks and happy smiles. By the time the call ended, she felt as though the ghost of her temper was finally laid to rest. The trap of her own anger disappeared, and so did her resentment towards Cash’s on-off attitude. She remembered what John had told her about baggage.

  It was possible that her own issues played a role in this too. Because when it came down to it, she wanted Cash. Badly. And if she was honest with herself, she hated that.

  Still chuckling at John’s bubbling wit—his impressions of the people he’d met that day had been hysterical—Bailey slid her phone back into her pocket and clambered off of Cash’s desk. And she knew by now that she wasn’t imagining things when his gaze darted momentarily down to her arse.

  He wanted her. And maybe he hated that, too.

  “You guys are doing a great thing, you know.”

  Bailey’s head whipped around at the sound of Jay’s voice, smacking herself in the face with her own hair. Jay’d been so quiet, she’d forgotten he was there.

  “What do you mean?” She asked.

  He gave her a look. “With that guy you’re helping. The homeless guy.”

  Bailey shrugged, uncomfortable. “He’s my friend. Anyway, I’m not doing anything. It’s Cash.”

  But Cash hooked his thick arms behind his head, tossing his hair out of his face. She couldn’t escape his piercing gaze as he argued, “I’ve got money to burn. You’re paying for his phone.”

  “It was an old phone. I just put credit on his SIM.”

  He arched a brow.

  “Everyone needs a phone,” she insisted, fiddling with her hair self-consciously. “You can’t keep a job without a phone.”

  “Whatever,” Jay interjected, closing his laptop and standing up. “All I’m saying is, most people wouldn’t make friends with a homeless person. They’d just write him off as some drug addicted loser and say he should pull himself up by his bootstraps.” He paused on his way out of the room. “And I know that Cash always does this sort of thing. Share the wealth. But you, Bailey? I don’t know. Most people wouldn’t take the time.” He shrugged. “Anyway, I better go. I have Bake Off reruns to watch.”