I let out a soft groan as I take my next bite. The enchilada melts in my mouth. Soft tortillas. Chewy cheese. Rich, wet sauce.
"Fuck, Chloe. You're giving me ideas."
I flip Dean off, but it's without enthusiasm. This lunch is too good. There's no room for anger or frustration or irritation in my brain.
I chew, swallow, suck water from my straw. Let out another soft sigh.
Dean chuckles. "You're gonna attract attention."
It's possible. We're at a trendy place on Abbot Kinney. The covered backyard patio is quiet but the half a dozen tables around us are full.
It's beautiful here. Cacti, flowers, red and white string lights shining against the green canopy.
Dean picks up the carafe. Refills my tiny water cup.
I finish it in three gulps.
Even sitting down, he's tall. I have to look up at him.
He's different than I remembered. But the same too. This guy, the one who insists on helping me, who fixes my tea, who cares about making sure my food is vegetarian—he asked the waiter if there was chicken broth in the Spanish rice twice—was he always there or is he new?
I don't know.
But I…
I really like him. This other Dean. And the original one too. As annoying as he is, that guy still pushes all my buttons—the hate ones and the love ones.
He takes a bite of his shrimp taco. Chews. Swallows. Licks guacamole from his lips. "You've been working at the shop a week now."
"Accurate."
"Who do you like working with best?"
"Uh." That's a loaded question if I've ever heard one. Even if Dean's the one asking it. "You really think there's a chance I'll say you?"
"How do you know that's what I'm getting at?"
"What else could it be?"
"All right. New question. You feel like you've learned a lot?"
I scoop another forkful of enchilada into my mouth. Chew. Swallow.
The last week is a blur of drawings, stencils, ink and skin, the buzz of the gun.
Dean's incessant teasing.
Ryan's quiet nods.
Walker's boyish laugh.
Brendon's… well, he's pretty much a more built, darker haired version of Ryan. Right down to the gushing about his girlfriend. And the girlfriend hanging out at the front desk a few times a week sending goo-goo eyes.
Not that the displays of affection send pangs of jealousy straight to my gut.
But you know, not all of us are lucky enough to be in love.
Or even believe in love.
They don't have to be so obvious about it.
"Chloe?" Dean scoops salsa verde onto his last taco. "You okay?"
"Wiped."
"Damn. Was gonna suggest a hike."
"Where?"
"Los Liones. Say, seven miles. Ten maybe."
"It's too late."
"In the morning."
"I'm good for it."
"You're that competitive?"
"You're not?"
His laugh is hearty. Knowing.
He leans back in his seat as he takes a bite from his taco. It drips over his hands. Onto his plate.
He finishes it with two more bites.
Licks salsa from his fingers.
His eyes meet mine as he sucks on his pointer finger. It's intentional, but it's not a come-on exactly. More a reminder of a possibility.
Dean still wants me.
But he's not offering anything.
At least, I don't think he's offering anything.
He's hard to read.
"I would, but I'm working tomorrow." He leans forward. Refills both our waters with the carafe.
"You have to work Sundays?"
"I have to work tonight. We all take weekend appointments."
"But I'm off?"
"'Cause weekends are busy and you're dead weight."
"Oh." I shrink back. He's being real with me, but the words still hurt. Right now, I'm in the way. I'm helpful, yes. I get coffee, I print mock-ups, I run errands. But when I'm sitting on the stool observing, I'm another person in the way. Like a friend or family member only without the benefit of distracting the client.
"You're a great apprentice, Chloe. Smart, dedicated, helpful. But, tell me—do you feel like Ryan is trying to teach you?"
"Trying? Probably. But he's really quiet. He responds to most of my questions with one-word answers."
"Walker?"
"He's friendly but kinda distracted."
"Brendon?"
"He's intense."
Dean chuckles. "Yeah, he is. Hot though."
"Not my type."
He flips his drying hair. "You prefer blonds?"
Actually, yes. Light hair and light eyes any day of the week.
"Fuck. You do. You're easy to read."
"I am not."
"Yeah. You are. When you aren't pissed, you smile a lot."
"I do not."
"Maybe with other people you don't. But when you're with me—"
"I do not."
"I can start recording it."
I take another bite. Still tomato and cheese perfection. Still warm and rich. "That's creepy."
"You really don't notice it?"
No. But now that I think about it, he's right. I've smiled more today than I have any day the last month. I've smiled more this week than I have in the last year.
Yes, I've frowned and ughed and wanted to slap the stupid out of Dean a lot too.
But, overall, I feel good. Like I'm finally where I belong.
Like I'm with someone— No. I'm not with Dean. We're hanging out. As friends or coworkers or mentor/student. I'm not sure, but I'm sure it's not sexual. Even if he keeps looking at me like he's thinking about me naked.
I don't blame him.
I'm doing the same.
God, the way that white t-shirt stretches over his shoulders. The cotton is damp. See-through. I can make out the ink over his right pec. Words, but what are they? And, God, the outlines of his muscles. He's just so…
Hot.
There's no other way to express it.
Dean Maddox is sex on a stick.
I look around the room. Find another hottie—a guy on a date with a short blond woman. He's tall, fit, with pretty blue eyes and dark hair.
Hot, even if he isn't my type.
But my body isn't responding.
Then I look to Dean. To his bright eyes and his wicked smile and his perfect pecs.
My heartbeat picks up.
My stomach flutters.
My sex clenches.
And my head… fuck, it fills with so many ideas.
He catches me staring. "I'm starting to think you invited me out just to picture me naked."
"You invited me out."
"To picture you naked. Fuck. Freudian slip."
"You know about Freud?"
"Yeah. He's my idol. With him, everything was about dick. Dick was basically the center of the psyche."
I can't help but laugh. That's dead on. "It sums you up."
"Can't go three seconds without thinking about what I'm gonna do with mine."
"Touch yourself?"
"Here? I'll get arrested. But if you want it that badly—" He stands. Makes a show of reaching for his button.
Actually undoes the button.
And the zipper.
He's still wearing that tight Speedo. But he's… He's not quite hard, but he's getting there. I can just make out the shape of his—
"More water?" The waiter drops off a carafe. Exchanges ours.
"Yeah. Thanks. I really worked up her thirst." Dean winks at me as he slides into his seat.
Tragically, he redoes the button of his jeans.
I force myself to stare into his eyes. This is so weird. Wanting him without all the hate rising in my gut.
Wanting him period.
The last time I wanted someone this much was…
That night in high school.
Don't get me wrong. I loved Alex. I loved having sex with him. But it was never tear your clothes off passion. It was comfortable. Easy. Safe.
"And me?" he asks.
"You?"
"How am I as a teacher?"
"Pushy."
He nods.
"Bossy."
"Of course."
"Annoying."
"And?"
I bite my lip. There's still a huge part of me that hates stroking his ego, but this is the truth. "You're a great teacher."
He beams. It's different than his usual bragging. There's no posturing to it. Just pride. "I must be good if you can admit that."
"You are. Ryan, Brendon, and Walker are friendly enough. But they just ask me to sit there and watch. You try to teach me things. Even if some of them are sexual harassment."
He chuckles. "I did stop."
"You did."
"But I can change that anytime." He takes a long sip of his water. "Balls in your court there."
"And it's staying there."
His laugh is loud. Hearty.
It warms me somewhere that's usually cold.
It makes every part of me feel good. It's the same as it used to be with Alex.
No, it’s better.
I… I really like him.