“No boyfriend.”
“Really?” He tilts his head and one side of his lips tip up.
Heat rushes up my neck. “Yeah. Why?”
He shrugs. “I’m surprised Phillips hasn’t locked you down yet.”
“Locked me down? Next you’ll be calling me someone’s old lady.” I place my pencil in the crack of the book to keep my place and close it.
He laughs and tips the mouth of his beer in my direction.
“I think you can probably think of a nicer way to say that?”
He chuckles. “You’re one of those, huh?”
“So far I’d say we’re not on the best of terms with your word choices.” I don’t mean anything horrible, I’m mostly joking, but I don’t believe anyone is going to “lock me down.”
“I didn’t mean any offense, I’m just surprised. You’re hot in that innocent schoolgirl way. Makes me want to make you all dirty.”
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. No one has ever said anything like that to me. I never thought I was the type of girl who would get turned on by it, but my core aches with his words.
“There must be something wrong with Phillips. How long have the two of you known each other?”
I shrug. “A few years.”
He nods, his gaze dipping to my cleavage. I shouldn’t like the way his eyes almost sear the clothes from my body. I have no doubt he’s envisioning me naked right now. I shouldn’t like it, but I do.
I’ve found myself feeling like a wanton woman about as often in my life as I’ve found myself the winner of the lottery. Which is to say never. I always ended up in that middle ground.
“And you guys have never…”
We both know what he’s asking.
“That would be none of your business.” Luckily the oven buzzer goes off, so I have a reason to excuse myself from this conversation.
“So you write math equations and bake. Those are your turn-ons?”
I pull the muffins out of the oven and place them on top of the stove. “They aren’t my turn-ons. I just enjoy baking.”
“Ah, but not the math? Good girl has a secret.”
I whip my head in his direction. His cocky smirk says he’s already figured me out.
“I think it’s time we shift the focus of our conversation to you.”
He twirls his beer bottle in circles on the table, following my movements as I transfer the muffins from the pan to the cooling rack.
“Name is Jax Owens. I’m a tattoo artist. Grew up in New York City. Once I turned eighteen, I aged out of the foster care system and got the fuck outta Dodge as fast as a criminal who slipped his cuffs before being thrown in jail. Right now, I need some calm from my chaotic life. So here I am.”
I lean against the counter. “What’s so chaotic about your life?”
“People following me on Instagram. Everyone wanting something. You’re not from my world, but I’m kind of a big deal.”
I laugh but stop once his eyes meet mine. “Conceited much?”
“It’s not conceited when it’s fact. Why do you think Phillips hates me so much?”
“I didn’t know he hated you.” I’m lying, but I can’t help but feel like Dylan’s bodyguard and I don’t like people putting words in his mouth. I have no idea why Dylan dislikes Jax.
“He does. I’m everything he wanted to be, but Winnie forced him to take one of those tests and attend college.”
I say nothing. The selfish part of me wants Jax to fill in all the blanks I have about Dylan’s past, because Dylan always has a way of dodging personal questions.
“The bastard got lucky with that painting.”
I nod because that is something I know about Dylan’s past. The painting Dylan sold in order to start Ink Envy. No one except for Ethan has ever seen it. I wonder if Jax has though.
“Talent isn’t luck,” I say.
He smirks, his gaze falling down my body. “You don’t have to stick up for him. He knows as well as I do that he got fucking lucky.”
“Maybe by finding the right buyer, but someone would have purchased it eventually.”
“So you’ve seen it?” Jax asks.
I place a cinnamon muffin on a plate and slide it over to him.
“Distraction by sweets. I’ll take that as a no.” He unwraps the muffin and chomps down.
“Are you two going to be able to play nice?” I ask, putting the muffin pan in the sink and turning on the water before adding soap.
“I don’t play nice, but I do play fair.” He winks and takes another healthy bite of the muffin.
“Just get along, respect each other’s things, and we’ll be good.” I turn around and wash the muffin pan.
A minute later, the chair legs slide along the hardwood floor again. He throws the balled-up muffin wrapper into the garbage in the cupboard to my right. Then his hands land on either side of me, caging me to the sink. “Let me ask you something, square root girl, are you Team Phillips?”
Shivers rise up my neck. “I’m no one’s team.” My voice doesn’t hold the conviction it should.
“I guess we’ll see about that.” He pushes off the counter. “You should make some pie,” he says while walking toward his bedroom.
I look over my shoulder at him. “Why?”
He turns around in the middle of the room. “Because I’d love to eat your pie.”
His smirk deepens and his gaze flows up and down my body once more with the scorching heat of a thousand flames. He walks into his bedroom and shuts the door just as the front door opens.
Dylan stands in the doorway like a German Shepherd who just found his scent after searching for miles. His gaze meets mine then travels to Jax’s closed bedroom door and wanders back to me. “Why are you so red? Is it too hot in here?”
I swallow past the dry lump in my throat. “No. I just took muffins out of the oven.”
Dylan drops his stuff by the door and beelines it to the muffins. “Hot muffins? My favorite?”
He takes one, pulling the top off first like he does with cupcakes. He eats it then goes to take off his jacket but stops with half the muffin in his mouth and one arm out of his jacket. I’m too busy processing Jax’s pie comment to wonder why he stopped.
By the time Dylan clears his throat after finishing the muffin, he holds a stack of papers in his hands. “What’s this?”
“Nothing.” I step forward, reaching for the papers, but he puts his hand on my head like an older sibling would to their younger one keeping me at arm’s length. “Dylan!” I scold, my arms frantically reaching.
“A math problem?” He continues reading. “Shit. Twenty-five K?” He stares at me without releasing my head. “You’re doing this?”
“No. I don’t know. My mom…” I blow out a breath and give up the fight.
He releases my head and sits at the table. “You don’t know? You totally should.” He flips the pages, reading through the contract. “You haven’t signed yet?”
I shake my head, falling into the chair next to him.
He throws down the papers and bends down to untie his boots. “Why?”
I shrug.