NINETEEN
Belle
“Belle, can I have a word with you before you go?”
I hesitate, mere feet from escaping the store, and turn to face Wade. “Sure.”
He jerks his head toward the table at his station, indicating I should take a seat.
Everybody else has left, only Wade and I on for the late-night appointments. The lights out front are off, the sign flicked to closed as I cross the dimly lit shop floor to his corner.
“What’s up?”
He removes his glasses and sets them on his station. “I could ask you the same.”
My stomach churns, the blood in my veins sluggish.
“I know you’ve only been with us a couple of weeks, Belle, but in that time I’ve already seen a change in you.”
My saliva seems tacky, swallowing not enough to clear my mouth. “If somebody has complained, then please let me know.”
He waves a hand dismissively at me. “It’s not about your work. Well… about your skin work anyway.” He frowns and sighs before rising from his stool. “Come.”
I follow to the front of the store, where my half dozen artworks are displayed for sale. He looks to the series, and then back at me, arms folded while he waits on me to catch on.
“If you need the space back, I’m totally okay with removing them.” He did me a favour to begin with, so he shouldn’t feel bad if he doesn’t want my side business in his shop anymore.
“That’s not the issue, Belle.” He closes his eyes, lifting one hand to pinch the bridge of his nose while he talks. “Look again. What can you tell me about the progression of your work?”
I feel as though I’m back in art class, being grilled about how bad I am at mimicking Andy Warhol’s style. These pieces are an extension of me, and if he doesn’t like my style then—
My style.
I take a step forward and familiarise myself with the subject matter of each of the six pieces, his point sinking in the longer I do. “They get more disturbed as they go on.”
“Darker, I would have said. But disturbed is probably accurate too.” He points to the first. “You start out safe with a traditional piece perfectly inside the box. And then—” He points to the last framed piece. “You delve into something a lot more dystopian, painful.”
Fuck—I do, too.
“That’s why I asked what’s going on, Belle.”
This is seriously the most awkward conversation I’ve ever had. I like Wade; he’s down to earth, patient, and cares about the people around him more than material wealth. But I hardly know the guy, and he’s psychoanalysing me.
“I have a few things I’m working through.” What else can I do but admit the obvious?
My worry is, what the hell does he want to do about it?
“Take the day off tomorrow. You only had an appointment for a design consultation; I’ll reschedule it and tell them you’re not well.”
“Wade. I’ve only just started here and, as thankful as I am for the offer, I’d rather come in and work on building my client base.”
“It wasn’t an option.” He gives me a small smile. “I need good energy in this shop, and Belle, your energy is seriously unwell. Take the time to regroup, meditate, do whatever you do to find yourself and then come back Wednesday refreshed.”
Shit. “Yeah, okay.”
I meant what I said: I’m grateful for his thoughtfulness, but damn it, my budget is worked out the last dollar. If I want to stay on track with my plans to open a shop of my own, I need every cent.
I can’t afford to fake sick days.
“Have a good night. If you need me to come in—”
He lifts a hand as I retrieve my bag. “We’ll be fine.”
“Thanks, Wade.”
“Take care, Belle.”
I push the front door open and step out into the darkness, the echo of the deadbolt as he twists the lock behind me seemingly deafening. Drawing a deep breath, I frown at the rain that steadily falls. Rivers run from the shopfronts to the gutter, puddles already formed in the cracked sections of the sidewalk.
Great. I still don’t have a car, which means I walk the twenty minutes from Dad’s place to work every morning. It also means I’m going to be a hot mess by the time I get home tonight. Guess I could always try Sharon.
Head down, focus on my phone as I bring up her number, I turn right and start toward the corner where there are parking spaces for her to pull over and collect me. I take a dozen steps and then almost drop my damn phone when I realise I’ve nearly walked into someone. The streets are so quiet at this time of night I didn’t expect to see anyone else.
I take better hold of my phone from where I’d caught it against my body and look up to apologise.
All the wind gets knocked from my lungs.
“Why?” is all I can say. The only word I can voice as the last cracked lines of mortar around my heart shatter and reveal the starved creature behind.
“Why not?”
Zeus stands powerful before me, his presence more intimidating than I remember. Or perhaps that’s simply due to the fact we haven’t physically spoken to each other in years? Everybody changes. Maybe the years did this to him: made him more confident, more sure of himself?
Whatever the reason, I can’t stop myself from staring. He wears a zipped sweatshirt, the hood pulled up around his head, his shoulders broad and strong. His hands are shoved in the pockets as he stares at me, seemingly waiting for me to do something, or perhaps talk? Yeah, words would be good.
“I’ve finished for the day if you wanted to talk about your tattoo,” I ramble, thumb slung over my shoulder to point behind me. “You should have let me know you were coming down, I could have—”
“Belle.”
“What?”
“Shut the fuck up.”
My eyes go wide at his attitude. Are all men arseholes now? “Excuse me?”
“You know as well as I do that I’m not here about the fucking tattoo.”
Okay then. My head screams at me to abort, to turn tail and walk the other way. Fuck—Dad would have a hernia if he knew the two of us were here right now, talking. Yet my tired and desperate heart keeps me rooted to the spot to hear what Zeus has to say next.
I’ve wished too long for this moment—I’m not about to give it up now.
“Where’s your boyfriend?” His gaze narrows, his jaw hard. “Why isn’t he here to get you?”
“Because he’s not even in town,” I admit.
The revelation seems to stun Zeus silent. His brow twitches, as does my palm with the need to reach out and touch him, check this isn’t some sex-starved dream I’m having.
“You need a lift?”
I glance down at the phone still in my hand. “Yeah.”
He shifts to stand beside me, and then pulls his hood back. My gut flips, my heart flopping around in my chest like a fish out of water when I set my eyes on his hair. He grew it back. I lift my hand between us, yet drop it to my side before he notices, intrigued as he removes the sweatshirt, peeling it down his thick arms.
“Here.”
He drapes the warm fabric over my shoulders. I let go of the breath I’d held, willing the tears that sting the backs of my eyes to go the fuck away. I’m not ready to fall apart yet. I need to stay strong just a little longer, until I can get home and be alone.
“I parked up this way.” He gestures to the direction I was headed and then sets a hand on my back to guide me toward his car.
His ride turns out to be the damn bike. Great.
“Don’t have four wheels for rainy days?” I look up at him with a smile as he lifts the helmet off the seat.
“Not yet.” His face is tortured as he sets the helmet over my head and gets to work securing it under my chin.
The barest brush of his fingers against my skin warms me in a way a thousand sweatshirts never could. I stare into his eyes, despite the fact he watches his hands, and search the depths for answers.
Answers I don’t think I’m ready to hear just yet.
“Here.” He twists my bag around my body, tucking it to my stomach before he zippers the sweatshirt over top of it all. The clothing is so damn big on me, the sleeves fall over my hands. “It’ll help keep your shit dry.”
My shit. I smile, laughing on the inside. He hasn’t changed that much, I guess.
The rain wets his T-shirt as he steps out of the cover of the shopfront again to start the bike. The fabric hugs his body, the red turning crimson where the rain soaks through.
“Are you sure you’ll be warm enough?”
He answers with only a smile, reminding me that he’s a grown man; he can look after his damn self. Smooth, Belle.
The sight of him as he throws a leg over the machine and seats himself has me reconsidering the sanity of this idea. The difference between Zeus and Damien is too obvious to ignore. Damien was always the laid-back type, the guy who wanted to cruise through life doing as little as he possibly had to, soft hands and an even more passive temperament. Yet Zeus. As he twists and holds a hand out for me to steady myself with, I can’t see anything but raw masculine brawn. He’s a worker, through and through, with rough calloused hands and the body that says he seeks out challenge every day.
They’re poles apart, and as I take Zeus’s hand and seat myself behind him, I know which one of the two affects me in ways no other can.
This one.
The guy who reaches back while still facing forward, and wraps his hands around my mid-thigh to shunt me forward, hard against his back. Desire courses through me in a hot wave as he then searches for my hands, placing them securely against his middle once he finds them, still encased in the sleeves of his sweatshirt.
I’ve never been so thankful for cotton. If my bare hands were against his wet shirt….
It’s a five-minute ride home. I can do this.
I’ll thank him and use the excuse that I need to get dry to make him leave. As much as I want to forgo sleep and spend the next however many days immersed in everything Zeus, I know there’s no way in hell Dad would let him in the house.
I want him. I want our future. But I need to keep my distance a little bit longer while I figure out how best to do it. I rushed into love with him once before, and look how that ended up. Nope. This time I’m letting my head rule, and reason to be my guide when it comes to making sure we get off on the right foot.
Says the girl who leans a little closer to inhale his warm scent.
I’m in trouble. So much trouble.