“Yeah? Well, did you see him take this?” G asks, thrusting the phone in my direction. Squinting to peer at the screen, I barely make out a black and white image of what looks like my silhouette. He must’ve snapped it while I was lost in thought, staring at the installation. Not a second later, Easton rips the phone from G’s hand.
“What was it?” I ask, feigning ignorance of what I saw as Easton glares at G, who’s chuckling at his discomfort. G somehow placates him with quick words I can’t decipher. Shortly after, the two begin conversing about the tattoo as I take my designated seat, grappling with the fact Easton took a photo of me within an hour of us meeting. Feeling Easton’s gaze dart my way, I avert mine and glance around the parlor as the flutter in my stomach intensifies.
As I contemplate the reasoning behind it, Easton and G stand at the sketch table at the station as G gets to work. In a matter of minutes, G produces a surreal-looking 3D likeness of a section of Chihuly’s sculpture. Several lone stalks of the red glass resembling lightning rods make up the whole of it. The difference is one prominently hovers over the top of the others, sweeping into a full loop before it breaches a few inches above the rest and shoots jaggedly upward.
It’s beautiful and…different.
G glances over at me as I study it. “This is just phase one,” he explains, “he’s got a lot planned for his virgin skin.”
“I don’t doubt it,” I reply. Eyes on the sketch, it saddens me that I’ll only be able to see the finished product in mixed media, and that’s only if Easton decides to release. Further contact with him after I take off tomorrow isn’t an option.
Eyes back on the sketch, I contemplate its meaning until I see Easton start to unbutton his shirt in my periphery. Instantly my attention shifts to his impeccable build and the memory of his heated eyes, his words, and the rest of our unspoken exchange last night. We’d come so close to crossing an uncrossable line. Panties soaked and breathless, I retreated straight to my room, tortured with what-if thoughts every second of the ride up the elevator and through a long soak in the tub. I woke this morning surprised but thankful sleep claimed me before my imagination got a chance to steal more much-needed rest.
Toeing the line again, I stare at his defined hard lines and feel the throb of want pulse through me as the need to flee threatens. Easton’s fingers slowly release each button, revealing more of what I’m in want of as G readies his supply cart. This is the second time in as many days I’ve had to endure the sight of this perfect man and his sculpted body, and the ask at this point is a bit much.
Mouth watering, I eye his belt briefly, picturing my fingers releasing the heavy buckle and the clank that would follow. The mere thought of the sound has my clit pulsating with terror as this unrelenting attraction rips through me. Panicking, I spring from my seat, my question coming out louder than intended.
“Bathroom?”
G grins at me, the twinkle in his eyes and the smug twist of lips letting me know he caught me as Easton discards his shirt and lifts his eyes to mine point-blank.
Bang.
Clearly, my prayers are going unanswered today, possibly because I’m committing heavily to one of the deadliest sins. Said sin coats me in a flooding shade of fresh red, and my damned neck flushes as G speaks up.
“In the back on the right. Extra TP under the cabinet if the roll is empty, and it usually is, so sorry in advance.”
“No problem, thank you.”
I march toward the bathroom as I berate myself.
WhatthefuckareyoudoingNatalieButler?
“Jesus help me,” I mutter behind the closed door of the bathroom, attempting to catch my breath. I realize I’m clutching my pint-sized travel purse to my chest like a human shield.
As if it would help.
My thoughts race for a solution to help me sidestep my increasing attraction for Easton Crowne as the answer boomerangs the second the question is released, hurtling back and bitch slapping me with truth.
Nothing.
Easton Crowne is a human masterpiece. He’s cruelly alluring looks-wise, and he’s got intelligence and depth to boot. He’s also insightful and warm, despite his frank way of speaking and his broody nature. Even after all he’s revealed, there still remains an air of mystery that’s only drawing this moth further into the flame. A flame I didn’t fully see until now, which is growing hotter by the second.
In short, Easton Crowne is the biggest threat to my well-being ever created.
“In my mind, I’ve already sunk inside you a thousand times.”
He wants to act on it, I want him to act on it, and there’s no way in hell that’s a possibility.
No way.
The upside to my current battle? In less than twenty-four hours, I’ll already be in the air, halfway to Austin, and he’ll no longer be a danger to me. Meeting him today—especially after my confession and our near-catastrophic flirtation last night—was a mistake. We should have parted there.
Instead, I dressed up for him, and now I’m obsessing in a fucking bathroom.
Who are you?
I blame the situation. I do not bow or blush for men, nor do I cower from attraction and hide from it in bathrooms. The man’s out of his damned mind comparing me to snow. I’ve roped and ridden my fair share. Not that the draw is comparable.
Simply put, it’s not.
Attraction aside, I can’t help the fact that I want to soak in every single second with him until I leave, even if we can’t act on it. He’s been one hell of a friend to me, and he’s being respectful of the line I’ve drawn, which makes me feel safe with him—to an extent. Images of him at the piano snake their way into my psyche as I repeatedly smack my head against the back of the door while Easton’s words filter through again.
“I’m also thinking you’ve never been properly kissed, fucked, or loved and that you caught a glimpse of something you want for yourself.”
Exhaling harshly, I make my way toward the vanity sink and give my reflection a pep talk. “Less than a day, woman. Get your shit in check. Right. Now. Butlers don’t back down. Seriously, he’s just a man. You can scratch the itch back in Austin.” I roll my eyes at my reflection, but even as I think it, and though Easton’s respecting the boundaries, his withdrawal from me when we got to the parlor has me sorting through the reason for it.
I haven’t said or done anything out of sorts. Nothing near as bad as what I confessed last night. Has his resentment grown? Is he masking some underlying contempt for me? Does he plan on toying with me? He’s more than capable, especially knowing I’m attracted to him.
If he’s planning on acting out, maybe getting even somehow, he’ll probably enjoy every second of watching me squirm. He’s probably enjoying the panic he no doubt saw back there. Determined to keep some of my self-respect, I flush the toilet to complete my ruse, wash my hands, and toss my shoulders back. It’s when I grip the bathroom handle of the door that realization dawns about the company we’re currently keeping.
My friends call me G.
Gi.
As in Benji First.
As in Ben—the son of the lead singer of the Dead Sergeants—and Lexi—Stella’s lifelong best friend and confidante’s—lovechild.
Oh fuck! Oh fuck! Oh fuck!
Racing from the bathroom back into the parlor to beg Easton not to disclose a single detail about me or my reasons for being here, I’m stopped short by the sight of Easton laying on the table, the purple outline of the sketch running from his hip bone to the top of his ribs. Buzzing gun in hand, Benji lifts his head when he spots me. “So, Easton tells me you’re from Texas, and your dad used to date my tía Stella.”
Fuck.
Lost in You
Phillip LaRue
Natalie
Slumping back into my seat next to the table, Benji frowns as he reads my dread-filled expression. “I’m sensing you didn’t want me to know that?”
Technically, Stella’s not his aunt by blood, but I have zero doubt that she has been present in his life in a way blood isn’t at all relevant.
Easton’s eyes catch mine before I flit them away, jaw tightening.