"I have an offer for you," he says.
"I'm not wearing panties. I can't tell you what color they are."
"Your swimsuit is black. Like all your panties."
"They are not." They are too. But I'm not admitting that.
"Prove it."
"I will."
"You do realize you'll have to show me your underwear to do that?"
"Yes." I walked right into that. But… ugh, I just want to prove him wrong so badly. He stokes something in me. Desire. Need. Competitive fire. "What's the offer?"
"You can apprentice under me. Just me."
"In exchange for?"
"Your Saturday mornings."
"My Saturday mornings?"
"You do what I say."
"Extra lessons?"
"Yeah, but not about ink."
My brow furrows. What? "You want to teach me about…"
"There's more to tattoos than putting ink to people's skin. There's a philosophy."
"Which is?"
"Every artist has theirs. What's yours?"
"I don't know."
"I'll help you find it."
"How?"
"Living."
"Bullshit." I fold my arms. "What's your real motivation?"
"That ink line didn't land?"
"Not even a little."
He laughs. "It's simple. You don't have enough fun in your life."
"You don't know anything about my life."
"Yeah, I do. I've watched and listened all week. You get to work, you go to aikido, you go home. That's it."
"I draw."
"And what? Watch TV?"
"I love TV."
"I love TV too, but I love a lot of other shit. What do you love, besides drawing and ink and TV?"
"My family."
"And?"
"What business is it of yours?"
"That's the offer. I make it my business."
I bite my lip. There's something appealing about the excuse to spend more time with Dean. But that's dangerous. I like him too much to keep my hands off him. "What do you love?"
"Tea."
"I love tea."
"Surfing. Hiking. Hanging with my friends, shooting the shit. Hitting the gym with Walker. Teasing Ryan. Going out for drinks. Going to shows. I've done all that shit in the last two weeks. What about you?"
"I just went surfing."
He shoots me a really look.
"I like my life."
"It's just an offer, Chloe. I teach you everything I want to teach you—"
"You mean?"
"No. Ryan would kill me."
"Oh." Disappointment seeps into my voice. I hate how badly I want him. I hate how easily he wraps me around his finger. How good his read on me is.
But, mostly, I hate that I really can't hate him.
"Expires at midnight," he says.
"Won't you be balls deep in some babe at midnight?" I bite my lip, but it does nothing to chase away the jealousy brewing in my gut. I hate the idea of him with anyone else much less with some anonymous leggy blonde. Because, in my head, it's always a leggy blonde with curves for days and all the experience in the world and everything I don't have.
"I work first thing tomorrow."
"So, you'll be done by eleven?"
He gives me a long, slow once over. "You know me too well."
Chapter Thirteen
Chloe
"Mmmm." I let out a soft moan.
This tea is perfection. Creamy milk, sweet honey, the astringent mix of bergamot, lavender, and black tea.
Is there anything better than a London Fog? Doubtful.
"I don't see it." Gia takes a long sip. Scrunches her nose in distaste. "It's so…"
"Robust."
"Weak." She stares at her mug curiously. "I'm trying, honestly, Chlo. But I just don't get tea." She takes another sip. "The honey is good." She reaches for a chocolate chip cookie.
After I got back from lunch with Dean, I needed to clear my head. I was too tired to go for a swim, so I started baking. Four hours later, the house is flush with sweet treats.
I grab an Earl Grey brownie and take a bite. Chocolate chips melt on my tongue. The Earl Grey flavor is subtle. Just enough to add depth to the semi-sweet chocolate.
Gia looks at the brownie curiously. "I don't know."
"I've made you espresso brownies a hundred times."
"But coffee and chocolate… that's everything that's right in the world."
"If you don't want it, don't eat it."
She tears a chunk from my plain white plate. After Mom died, Dad packed away all the fancy plates and cutlery.
At first, it was strange, like he was erasing her. But that wasn't it. He couldn't stomach the tiny memories of her. He couldn't handle scooping eggs onto his plate and seeing everything he'd lost.
All right. Maybe it was me as much as it was Dad.
But now the white plates and the dull silverware speak to her absence as much as the fancy plates do.
This is the plate for a life without Mom.
For a world where she doesn't exist.
Outside, the garage door whirs.
Gia slides out of her chair. Moves into the kitchen and starts scooping ground coffee into the machine. "You think he'll want some?"
"Probably." Coffee has always been Dad's drink. Tea was Mom's. I feel closer to her when I brew a cup. And, well, I guess after nearly fifteen years I'm desperate to hold onto her memory.
I savor the last sip of my London Fog then get to work on Gia's. It's lukewarm, but it's still good.
"There." Gia presses the button on the coffee maker. Reaches into the cabinet for two mugs. Lucky girl is five foot five. She never struggles to reach a high shelf.
She looks like Mom—round eyes, wavy hair, angled features.
She passes as white.
I don't. I take after Dad.
I'm proud of my heritage, but the what are you questions? I'd happily part with those forever.
Gia taps her fingers against the counter as she waits for the carafe to fill.
Dad's car pulls into the garage. The door opens and slams shut. Then he's in the hallway and the garage door is whirring closed.
"Do I smell coffee?" he asks.
Gia beams. "Hey Daddy!" Even at twenty-six, she's pure Daddy's girl.
He moves into the kitchen and hugs her hello.
"Go. Sit. I'll fix your coffee," she says.
His dark eyes pass over the counter. "Did you rob a bakery?"
"I'll bring them to work Monday." Or not. There's no food allowed at the shop. But I can wrap everything in plastic. Insist people eat it outside.
He takes a seat next to me. "You should have come to the movie."
"You know I don't like action." I tear off another chunk of brownie. Toss it in my mouth. Let it dissolve on my tongue.
He reaches for one, but Gia stops him.
"Careful, they're Earl Grey," she says.
He ignores her warning. Takes a bite. Shoots me a thumbs-up. "It was thinky. You'd like it."
"Thinky how?" I laugh. Dad loves movies. Great ones and terrible ones. "Did the spy have to outsmart the Russian super villains?"
"She's impossible, huh?" Gia teases.
"Oh?" I stare down my sister. "You want to see it—" I try and fail to recall the name of the weekend's latest spy thriller.
"Well…" She turns to the coffee maker. Pours two cups. "I would see it."
"I would see it too. But that doesn't mean I want to," I say.
Dad looks between us. Smiles wistfully, the way he does when he's lost in a memory. "We can watch the first one after dinner."
Gia shoots me a how do we get out of this look.
He catches it. "Are you staying for dinner, sweetie?"
"Sure. Mark is at the office." She gets milk from the fridge. Pours it into both mugs. She and Dad take their coffee the same way—sweet and creamy.
"Are you hungry?" I ask Dad. "I can start cooking."
"Let's order pizza." Gia moves into the living room. Sets Dad's coffee in front of him. Slides into the seat across from me and sips hers.
I fight a frown. Cooking makes me feel good. It's how I show Dad and Gia I love them. "No. I'll cook."
Gia scrunches her nose. "I'm not in the mood for something vegetarian."
"Something like pizza?" I ask.
"It won't kill you." Dad takes a long sip of his coffee. "It's good for your cholesterol."
"You sound like Mark." She groans.
"Of course I do. Did you see the sandwich she posted on Instagram? The bread was made out of bacon," Dad says.
Gross.
"Oh my God. I'm dating my father. I'm going to marry my father." Gia's nose scrunches.
I do nothing to fight my laugh.
Then it hits me. "Mark is finally proposing?"