“Okay?” I have to admit, I’m curious. “Then why are you crying?”
Her golden-brown gaze finds mine and her shoulders fall. “Because you’re right.”
Was not expecting that …
Brighton grips her purse strap, secures it over her narrow shoulder, and reaches to move the curtain out of the way.
Groaning, I say, “Wait.”
She stops, turning back to me. “Why?”
“Because you can’t go out there like that,” I say.
Brighton scoffs. “You think it’ll make you look bad.”
“No. I don’t give two fucks what they think of me,” I say. “I just know those guys, and they’re going to give you shit.”
“Wow,” she says, arms folded as she steps closer to me. “You just insinuated that you couldn’t care less about my ‘kind’ and now you’re worried that a couple of your employees are going to make fun of me. So which is it? Do you resent me or are you actually not as coldhearted as you act?”
“I don’t resent you—I don’t know you.”
Her brows rise. “Really? You don’t know me? Because you sure acted like you knew everything about me a minute ago.”
Her chest rises and falls and the soft scent of her perfume fills my lungs. She moves in and the closer she gets, the harder my heart drums in my chest.
Brighton represents everything I hate in this world—entitlement, privilege, greed. But for some strange and unknown reason, all I can think about right now is crushing those rosebud lips with a kiss.
“You want to know what I think about you?” she asks.
I smirk. “No. But I’m pretty sure you’re going to tell me anyway.”
“I think you’re an asshole,” she says. “And I’ve never said that to anyone in my entire life, but I’m saying it to you because I feel like you need to hear it and you seem like the kind of guy who appreciates honesty.”
“You’re not wrong.”
“I know I’m not wrong,” she says.
“Good. Looks like we’re in agreement about pretty much everything today.”
“I’m not done.” She lifts a flat palm in front of my face.
“Yeah, you are,” I say before she can continue. And then I do the most fucked up thing of all.
I kiss her.
I mean, technically I’m shutting her up—but with a kiss.
I silence her full mouth with mine, cupping her pretty little face in my palm, my fingers slipping through her silky blonde hair.
She moans for a second, a half-assed attempt to protest, and then she exhales through her nose, her breath warm and minty on my face as her lips part and she accepts my tongue.
I don’t know what the fuck is happening or what the fuck this is, but there’s something cathartic about it. Like a release I never knew I needed.
Moving my hands lower, I slip a finger under the hem of her shirt then beneath the waistband of her linen shorts, pulling her closer, until she’s completely pressed against me. My cock throbs, hardening on the other side of my jeans.
I'd take her right here, right now if I could.
A minute later, she pulls away, lips swollen and golden eyes wild. She tugs her shirt into place and tucks a strand of hair behind one ear. “This is probably a Monday for you.”
“Are you implying that I kiss all of my clients?” I ask.
“Essentially.”
I smirk. “Only the infuriatingly sexy ones.”
Her cheeks bloom with warmth, and she looks away. Makes me wonder if anyone’s ever called her “sexy” in her life. Not that she isn’t. I just bet people in her social circles aren’t the crass and blatant types.
Brighton lifts her fingers to her puffy pout. I’m two seconds from asking if she’s okay. I mean, it sure as hell seemed like she was enjoying herself a minute ago. And she kissed me back, her tongue grazing mine and her hands resting on my hips.
But the curtain moves.
We’re no longer alone. No longer isolated from the rest of the shop. Or from reality.
Missy stands there, snapping her gum, her dead stare alternating between the two of us. “Your next appointment’s here.”
“’Kay, thanks,” I say as Brighton clears her throat and squeezes past Missy. Five seconds later, she’s gone, the bells on the front door jangling as it shuts. I glance at the small waiting area and spot one of my longtime clients flipping through a magazine. “Bud, I’m ready for you.”
I motion for him to come on back, and he follows, making himself comfortable as I prep the station. We’re finishing up a piece on his left bicep today, a black and white likeness of the 13-year-old Rottweiler he had to put down earlier this year. There’s not much room to work with—he’s what we like to call a tattoo “collector” and he’s more ink than skin these days, but I’ve never turned down a challenge or a loyal client and I’m not about to start now.
“How goes it?” he asks.
“Same old.”
“Keeping busy?”
“Always,” I say.
That’s one of the things I like about Bud. He can carry on a conversation using a fourth as many words as everyone else. And what you see is what you get with him. He wears ripped Wranglers, twenty-year-old t-shirts with screen-printed logos that he probably got for free over the years, and he hasn’t cut his goatee in at least half a decade. Braids it and everything.
Bud is real.
Nothing like Brighton, who hides behind her Park Terrace facade and family name.
I prep my station, wash up, and slap on a pair of clean gloves as Bud leans back on the client bed—and it’s then that I realize Brighton left without me so much as glancing at her tattoo.
As soon as I finish up with this appointment, I’ll shoot her a text about rebooking. I’m sure the thing’s healing nicely and I’m sure she’d be fine if she never sets foot in here ever again …
… but I kind of want to see her again.
Nineteen
Brighton
* * *
I’m reeling.
Head to toe.
I never knew it was possible to feel … sparkly … but that’s the only way I can describe it. It’s like every part of me is alive, parts I never knew existed.
That kiss.
That kiss …
It was everything.
Unexpected. Exhilarating. Infuriating. Freeing. Terrifying. Enthralling. It brought everything to the surface at once. I don’t think it lasted more than a minute, but I felt more in that one minute than I’ve ever felt in my entire life combined.
I drove home on a cloud, walked into my house practically dancing on air.
I’m quite certain Madden felt nothing. I’m sure he does that sort of thing all the time, despite the fact that he denied it. I bet women throw themselves at him all the time. With those steady hands, full lips, and that devil-may-care attitude, he’s all but impossible not to want.
Lying on my bed, I stare at the ceiling before closing my eyes and replaying that moment for the thousandth time.
His mouth crushing mine.
His hand on my cheek, fingers in my hair.
The hardness beneath his jeans when he pressed my body against his.