It was terrifying. I thought I had my life figured out—I was about to graduate UCLA. I was ready to start doing martial arts competitions. I was madly in love with my boyfriend.
But I misjudged him the way I misjudged Dean. To Alex, I was a fun way to fill time. We were never going to be serious. He left at the first sign of trouble.
My friends at college, the ones who drank with me, laughed with me, organized documentary screenings and bake sales with me…
They left too.
Gia and Dad are the only people who stuck around. And, yeah, maybe that wore on me.
Maybe it convinced me that people abandon you the second shit gets hard.
That men always fall back on their promises.
That no one wants the girl with a clock on her head.
But I…
Well, I guess I'm not over it.
I'm not filled with the survivor pride.
I'm not dancing over how lucky I am to be alive.
I'm alive, and I'm glad, but it sucks being alone.
Losing so much.
Mom was unlucky. The gene mutation that killed her wasn't easy to test then. She caught it late. She suffered.
But I knew early. Well, early enough for treatment. The doctors assured me I'd be fine so long as I lopped off my breasts then injected poison into my veins for a few months.
It was an easy choice.
I look the same. Better even. My boobs are bigger. Perkier. Nicer.
I wear clothes better.
I get more attention from guys.
But these fake tits don't feel like mine. They feel like they belong to someone else. To some woman who laughs at cancer. Who scampers around the beach in bikinis. Who drinks mimosas with brunch.
Not to me.
I'm the weird, artsy girl without a curve to her name.
I'm all skin and bone (and a little muscle).
I'm not a centerfold.
But these…
It was weird, coming out of recovery and suddenly turning heads.
I tried to revel in it. I tried to use it to my advantage. To date guys who used to be out of my league. To get free drinks and entrance to clubs (not that I liked them).
But it never felt right.
None of the guys felt right.
None set me on fire.
Or tempted me to tear my clothes off.
There's no reason why I can't feel desire. I still have my nipples. My hormones are normal. I'm not depressed. At least, not anymore.
But I can't find that deep need in my core.
That if I don't have it now, I'll die.
If I don't come now, I'll die.
But Dean…
He wakes up the part of me that's been dormant.
Because I had him before?
Because I want him now?
I don't know.
It doesn't matter.
Maybe I should listen to my body for once.
But my mind and heart are diametrically opposed to the cocky playboy.
Chapter Eight
Dean
Friday night, I stop Ryan on his way out the door. "Chloe was a good call."
"No shit." He stares at me in that Ryan kind of way. Assessing my intentions. Picking me apart. "What the hell are you up to?"
"Me?" I feign offense. "What could I possibly be up to?"
"Something."
"You worked with her yesterday."
"Yeah."
"And?" I ask.
"She didn't mention wanting to kill you." His gaze shifts to Chloe. She's sitting behind the counter, working on a sketch. "Is that 'cause you're doing your job or cause she's not the type to narc?"
I shrug.
Ryan shakes his head. "You really think your bullshit fools me?"
"Sometimes."
"Sometimes, yeah. But not most times." He laughs. Steps backward as he slings his bag over his shoulder. "You're staring at her."
"At her tits."
"No. At her." He smiles. "You like her or something?"
"I haven't liked a woman since high school."
"She went to our high school."
"Wasn't her."
"Don't believe you."
"It wasn't."
"Uh-huh." His smile widens. "Damn, Dean. Leighton is gonna flip—"
"I don't—"
"I don't believe you. But it doesn't matter. You can't. You're her boss. It's out of the question."
"Of course."
"Of course." He shakes his head. "Like you aren't picturing her naked."
"I can picture a woman naked then not fuck her." Or recall a past fuck. But Ryan doesn't need to know that.
"You put money on that?"
"You're picking up my bad habits."
He holds out his palm. Copies my pay up gesture. "A hundred bucks says you're gonna try to fuck her."
"Excuse you?"
"Yeah?"
"Try?"
He nods. "Not every woman finds you charming."
"She wants to fuck me."
"Hate fuck you maybe."
"That's still a fuck."
"Fair enough." He pulls out his wallet. Takes out a fistful of twenties. "What do you say? We settle this Dean style."
"You're freaking me out."
"You chicken?"
"No." Seriously, what the hell is Ryan doing acting like me? He's the stable, responsible one. "A hundred bucks says I keep it in my pants."
"Bet you've never said those words in that order."
"Sure, how much?"
He shakes his head, that same you're ridiculous. Turns to her. "Good night, Chloe."
"Good night," she calls back.
He waves goodbye then makes his way out the door.
Leaving the two of us alone.
Chloe stirs as I get closer.
For a split second, her dark eyes meet mine. They flare with something—some mix of frustration and anticipation.
It fades from her expression as she stares at her paper.
Her fingers curl into her pencil. She focuses intently on a curve. Outlines a flowering rose.
"Can I see?" I ask.
"You're asking?"
"I have manners."
"You sure about that?"
"No. Maybe you should test me."
"Okay." She looks up at me. Pushes her lips to one side. Taps her chin. "Should you ask your subordinates about their underwear?"
"Shit. I know I've heard this one before."
She fights a smile.
"Yeah. Right? Show them you're taking an interest in their personal life."
"No."
"Fuck. Really?"
"Really."
"But what if your subordinate is wearing tights jeans that are driving you out of your mind?"
Her tongue slides over her lips. "Are you saying she was asking for it?"
"No. I'm worried someone is gonna ask me about my underwear."
A laugh rises in her throat. She holds her hand over her mouth. Tries and fails to stifle it.
Her dark eyes light up.
Her expression softens.
She brushes a lock behind her ears. "You don't have a boss."
"Damn. There goes that." I lean closer. Raise a brow. "What if my subordinate asks?"
"I'm not sure this falls under manners."
"No?"
"More sexual harassment."
"That's bad, right?"
Her laugh is light. Soft. "Yeah, it's bad."
Fuck, her laugh still hits me everywhere. I want to do whatever it takes to make it happen again.
I should stay the fuck away.
Keep her at a distance.
Do whatever it takes to avoid her getting under my skin.
But I can't.
There's something intoxicating about being around Chloe.
I need more of it.
I need all of it.
And, right now, I don't give a fuck what that means.
I need to be around her. Period.
I move closer. Look to the paper. "You haven't shown me the mock-up."
"You want to tease me or you want to look at the mock-up?"
Both. I motion give it to me.
She hands the sketchbook over.
A rose unfurls over a Latin quote. Its thorns wrap around the words. Guarding them or destroying them?
Hard to say.
"You design this for anyone in particular?" I hand it back.
"That's all I get?" She presses her lips together. Shifts her weight from one foot to another. Nerves flare in her dark eyes. But still she stares up at me, unblinking.
"What do you want?"
"To know if it's good."
"Do you think it's good?"
She stares at the art. Traces its lines with her fingertip. "It's a good start."
"It's great."
Surprise streaks her expression. Her lips curl into a soft o. Her chest falls with her heavy exhale.
"You're a fantastic artist. Best at the shop."
"Really?"
"Yeah. But that's only a fraction of what you need."
"Oh." Her brow knits in frustration. She blinks and it softens. Fades into the fiery determination I expect from her.
There's no middle ground with Chloe. She's all fire and ice. She's passionate. Opinionated. Sure.
I wish I gave that much of a shit.