But everything else is different.
Maybe that's okay.
Maybe it's possible to forgive and forget. My life is bigger and broader than it was in high school. My concerns go way beyond a guy who didn't call.
A guy who didn't call…
I wish that was my biggest problem.
I roll my shoulders.
Lean my head to one side. Then the other.
I need this job. That means I need to play nice. It's possible. Really.
I go to pull the door open, but it's locked.
Dean looks up from his drawing. His focus fades as his eyes meet mine. His lips curl into a wicked smile.
The I'm fucking with you Dean.
I shift my weight from one foot to the other. Bite my lip. Play with my tank top.
He's not going to make my stomach flutter. He's not going to make me nervous. He's not going to make me feel anything. Period.
Dean moves to the door with steady footsteps. He stares into my eyes as he pulls it open. "After you."
I step inside. The bell rings as the door falls shut behind me. "Thanks."
"My pleasure." He turns. Places his body behind mine. It's a respectable, work appropriate distance—at least when your work involves touching people—but it's enough to make my stomach flutter.
My gaze shifts to the ceiling. Except for the string lights lining the room, it's plain, white. But they cast a soft pink glow over the top of the room. A pink halo.
"I should get started." I'm taking over half of Leighton's job. It's a lot of administrative work.
"After this." He motions to the office/back room.
I follow him past the counter, around the corner, into the cozy space.
It's a tiny room—smaller than my bedroom—lined with supplies on wire racks and a cheap Ikea desk. This room isn't like the rest of the shop. It's sparse. Empty. Soulless.
There's no love in this room.
Just function.
It's weird. The four guys who own the shop are artists—tattoos are art—and it shows in the main area. Hell, it shows in their clothes, their smiles, their skin.
But here?
It's basically a corporate cubical.
"You looking at something, sunshine?" Dean asks.
"No." My gaze shifts to the desk. Computer. Printer. Two office chairs.
He steps in front of the computer. The insanely old computer. "Come here."
I do.
He fumbles with the printer. "You have your portfolio?"
"Not on me."
He taps the strap of my backpack. His finger slips. Brushes my shoulder. "You have anything?"
My stomach flutters.
My nipples tighten.
My heart rises in my throat. My nipples haven't done that in a long time. They're usually…
But he…
I swallow hard. I'm not reacting to him. Really.
"Chloe?" he asks.
"I have my sketchbook."
"Show me a tattoo mock-up."
"Of course." I bite my lip, but it does nothing to clear my mind. Dean is touching me. But he's being serious.
It's weird.
Which Dean is this—the goofball or the artist?
No. I'm delusional. There's one Dean and he lives to make my life difficult.
Even so. He's my boss. My teacher.
I need his help.
I set my backpack on the desk. Dig through it for my sketchbook.
But what the hell do I show him? I scan page after page of figure drawings, doodles, mock-ups. None are right. None are good enough. Or me enough.
There.
I settle on the design I drew for Gia. A pinup style Han Solo. He's lying on the Millennium Falcon, his legs splayed open, his shirt cut to his belly button.
Dean chuckles as he looks it over. "Different."
"It's a riff—"
"On a classic pinup."
"Yeah."
"A parody. Han here looks hot as hell. But he also looks ridiculous with his back arched and his legs in the air. Making a pinup a male character underlines how ridiculous the whole concept is."
Yeah. That's actually exactly it.
His eyes find mine. "Yes?"
"Nothing."
"Your mouth is hanging open."
"It is not."
"You think I'm an idiot?"
"I didn't say that."
"You can." His fingers brush mine as they curl around my sketchbook. He raises a brow you mind? "It won't hurt my feelings."
"What would?"
"If I thought you meant it."
I motion go ahead.
He takes the book. Turns.
His ass brushes my thigh as he bends to lay the book on top of the scanner.
He smells good. Like soap and shampoo and Dean.
That's the same shampoo. It takes me right back to the dark bedroom. To fumbling hands and locked lips and low groans.
Get a grip, Chloe. You're working together. That's it.
The machine whirs on. Spits out a printout of my drawing. "You can close your mouth. I'm not gonna whip it out, no matter how much you beg for a taste."
I bite my tongue. Fight my desire to slap him. That's the Dean I know. God, he's so annoying. "In your dreams."
"No. My dreams of you are much dirtier than that."
"You haven't."
He shrugs maybe I have, maybe I haven't. He rolls up his sleeve, exposing his ink-free shoulder. "You ever do this?"
"This? Pretty sure you were there."
His laugh lights up his bright eyes. It lights up his entire expression. He becomes that charming, effervescent version of himself.
He's so…
Handsome.
And annoying.
How can one person be so endlessly frustrating?
He taps the printout. "It's a special adhesive paper."
"A temporary tattoo."
"Yeah."
I've seen these. They're examples. So people can trial run tattoos. Sometimes artists use them like tracing paper. Go freehand. The image is mirrored, because it's meant to be pulled off the paper and onto someone's skin.
"Cut it out." He picks up scissors and hands them to me.
I snip the edges from the paper.
"Paste it on me." He motions come here.
No. I can't move closer. I'm too close already. "Water?"
He motions to the cooler in the corner.
I move over. Fill a cup. The cotton swabs are on the wire rack behind me.
"Rubbing alcohol first," he says.
There. It's on the top shelf. I press to my tiptoes to grab it. Bring everything back to the desk. Leave it in a neat row.
A medicinal smell fills the room as I uncap the rubbing alcohol and wet a swab.
My left hand goes to his forearm. Holds him in place while the right cleans his shoulder.
There. I grab a paper towel from the corner. Pat dry.
"Take the temp tattoo and take off the plastic."
I do.
"Press it against my skin and hold it in place. Then wet it with the cotton ball."
"Sure." I press the temporary tattoo to his skin. Soak the cotton ball than dab it against the paper, inch by inch.
I can feel him, under the paper.
His warmth.
His hardness.
His pulse.
It's overwhelming.
Then he looks down at me and my body goes into overdrive. What's in those bright blue eyes of his? Is he assessing me? Figuring out how to teach me? How to torture me?
My head is uncertain.
My body is apathetic. It only cares that he's looking at me. That he's close. That he's here.
I force my gaze to the paper. "Is that long enough?"
"Thirty seconds."
That's an eternity. My eyes move around the room. Black desk. Black printer. Silver wire racks. Boxes of ink pads. Of K-cups. Of water bottles.
First aid kit.
Rubbing alcohol.
A&D.
Aftercare lotion.
Plastic gloves.
Plastic wrap.
Autoclave sterilizer.
His breath is even. Steady.
Mine is… not.
The air conditioner whirs.
My heart thuds.
There. That must be it. "You ready?"
"Yeah."
I drop the cotton ball in the paper cup.
Slowly, I peel the adhesive from his tanned, toned skin.
My breath leaves my body.
It's perfect.
It's amazing.
It's everything.
That's my work, my drawing, on his skin.
My work is on someone's body.
It's temporary, but still.
It's my work on someone's body.
On Dean's tall, sculpted body.
The back of his hand brushes the inside of my wrist. "You okay, sunshine?"
"Yeah." My fingers go to his skin reflexively.
"You gonna ask permission for that?"
"Sorry."
"I get it. I'm irresistible."
My cheeks flare. "No, I—"
"You can touch me all you want, sunshine. But you need to break that habit."
"Oh."