Chapter Eight
On Sunday evening, Bailey knocked at John’s bland hotel door. When it swung open, Bailey held up her shopping bags, a wide smile on her face. “Knock knock, bitch!”
“Ugh, it’s you.” John rolled his eyes. “I was hoping for the hot tattoo artist.” But then he broke into a smile of his own, and she knew he was glad to see her.
“Boy, shut up.” She smirked as she pushed past him into the hotel room, dropping her bags on the table. “I come bearing gifts!”
“Like I haven’t had a lifetime’s worth of Christmas blessings in the past few days.”
She gave him a look before taking off her coat. “Look, here’s the phone. I got you a SIM too—”
“Oh, Bailey.”
“And some gingerbread.” He sat down next to her on the carpet as she emptied out her bags. “And a couple of Chocolate Oranges. They’re buy-one-get-one-free at Tesco’s. And some little mince pies, look, and a Christmas nibbles selection.”
“Bailey.” He raised his brows as he surveyed the junk food. “This isn’t all for me, is it?”
“Well…”
“Let me guess: you’d be happy to help?”
She giggled guiltily. “Only if you’ll have me.”
“Of course I’ll have you! In fact, there’s lots we need to discuss…”
John clambered onto the bed and arranged their feast while Bailey popped the room’s little kettle on.
“The phone is just in time,” he grinned. “I have a very important number to put in it.”
“Oh?” She added two sugars to John’s tea and one to her own, thinking happily about how much fuller his cheeks looked already, and the way his eyes sparkled.
“Yep. My potential new boss.”
“What?!” She came over to the bed, clutching the cups of tea.
“Cash has sorted me an interview already!”
“Seriously?”
“And he’s taking me out to get a suit tomorrow.”
Bailey handed John his cup before taking a sip of her own. She wasn’t sure what to make of this new information. Yes, she’d known that Cash was… Kind. But since the disaster of yesterday evening, she’d maintained the sort of frosty energy towards him that made it easy to forget he was capable of things like this.
“You’re awfully quiet,” John murmured, breaking open the plastic tub of gingerbread. “I thought he might have mentioned it to you.”
“Hm?”
“You know.” He eyed her closely. “At work?”
“Oh. Um… We don’t really talk much. I’m just the receptionist, and he’s some kind of tattoo god.”
“What does that mean?”
“You know I saw him in a magazine? Apparently, he spent years touring the world and tattooing celebrities and whatever.”
“Really?” John considered that for a moment. “Makes sense. I knew he was loaded.”
“Loaded?”
“My instincts never lie. Which is also how I know that something’s going on between you two.”
Bailey stared, flabbergasted. When a bite of mince pie threatened to fall out of her mouth, she finally clamped her jaw shut. “Oh, my God,” she frowned. “Nope. Sorry, man. The instincts are way off there.”
“What’s that old quote about protesting too much?”
“Shut up.”
“You’re telling me you don’t want to smash him to smithereens?”
Bailey almost choked on her own spit. “Shut up!”
“All I’m saying is, you could do worse.” John lowered his gaze demurely, fiddling with his sleeves. Sometime in the last two days, he’d bought a pair of striped pyjamas. He looked unfairly adorable, considering he was such a demon.
“I could not do worse than Cash Evans. Trust me on that.”
“Hmmm,” John mumbled around a mouthful of gingerbread, spraying crumbs across his sheets. “I smell drama.”
“Don’t speak with your mouth full.”
“Drama waits for no man, or manners.”
Bailey rolled her eyes. “I’ll admit, I thought he was cute, back when he used to come into the coffee shop. But you already knew that. Now I’m getting to know him better, he’s… Well. He’s hot and cold. I don’t like it. That shit’s manipulative.”
John chewed thoughtfully before he answered—thank God. “Ordinarily I’d agree with you,” he said. “But I swear down, he might be the sweetest man I’ve ever met. He’s very ‘tortured artist’. You know?”
“‘Tortured artist’ is code for ‘attractive arsehole’.”
“Only when they’re faking it. Have you considered that he might have some genuine baggage?”
Bailey shrugged. Truthfully, no; she hadn’t considered that at all. But it opened up a whole new world of potential problems.
“I’m just saying. Everyone has baggage. Don’t you?”
“Well… Yeah.” She admitted reluctantly.
“But you’re still an amazing person. I think any man would be lucky to have you.”
“Aw, John.” She slapped his skinny shoulder playfully. “Stop.”
“And I’m sure you want to think that someone, somewhere, might be willing to help you through that baggage instead of letting it push them away.”
The teasing smile slid off Bailey’s face as she considered that statement. She didn’t want that—did she?
No. She didn’t want any man. Or at least, not in that way. Semi-regular hookups did her just fine, thank you very much. And for the all-too-often times that she couldn’t bear to go out on the hunt—to glam herself up and keep her mouth shut long enough to seduce a man—well. It was the 21st Century. Thank you, baby Jesus for the blessing of vibrators.
Sure; every now and then, she might indulge in the odd romance novel. And she swooned over the growing intimacy, the heartfelt declarations, the intense adoration, just like anyone else. But that was a fantasy. It didn’t mean anything. Or at least, she might be able to convince herself of that, if it weren’t for the fact that she studied psychology. But Bailey knew better. Fantasies always meant something. The question was, what?
“I suppose you might be right,” she murmured.
“I usually am.”
“Hm.” She put down the rest of her mince pie, her thoughts splitting into a thousand overwhelming pieces.
“Just think about it, why don’t you?”
As though she could do anything else.