"I don't understand why I need to learn this." I stare at my Art History text book.

The impressionism chapter recap.

There are a dozen questions I can use as practice.

But they might as well be in another language.

I'm so out of my depths here.

"You gonna be one of those tech people who constantly complains about how useless the humanities are?" Hunter glances at me from his spot in the kitchen. He's fixing a cup of coffee. Two actually.

With a pour over.

It's some fancy contraption straight out of a sci-fi movie.

Don't get me wrong.

I'm not a coffee newb.

I've seen these long necked kettles, the hourglass shaped cups, the cone filters.

But I've never seen a civilian use one.

"Em?" He repeats his question for the ten millionth time tonight.

I'm in the clouds.

Ever since I saw Vinnie hanging in the doorframe, I've been floating away from the moment.

I guess it's some sort of Pavlovian response.

Vinnie equals disassociation.

Though, it's not really Pavlovian if the conditioned response happened one time.

Or is it?

Thankfully, Psych 101 is in my rearview mirror.

I don't need to know that.

Whereas the subtle difference between Van Gogh and Monet—

That's of utmost importance.

"No." I read question three again. Eight images of paintings. I'm supposed to name the title and artist. The first is easy. Monet. Water Lilies. "I'm going to own a boutique."

"Oh."

"What do you mean oh?"

"That would suit you."

I stare up at Hunter for some clue to his intention. Is he teasing or serious? I can't tell with him.

He's Brendon's spy.

But I think he's trying.

He did thank me for dinner. Then compliment my pesto penne again and again.

And now he's fixing coffee.

He's not all bad.

"You don't take orders," he says.

"Why should I?"

"Besides my daddy fetish?"

"If you keep joking about that, I'm going to reverse my ruling."

"Good." His lips curl into a smile that lights up his blue eyes.

He is teasing.

And serious.

Not about the kink.

About wanting me to believe it.

Wanting me to find him repulsive.

Which is kind of ridiculous.

He spends God knows how much time at the gym perfecting his biceps. He wants every other woman on the planet to gawk. And I'm supposed to see his perfect ass and think damn, I don't want to touch that.

"I think the lady doth protest too much," I say.

"You're quoting Shakespeare?"

"Yeah." Okay, I stole that one from Kaylee. She was quoting Shakespeare nonstop last semester, during her British literature class. "He has good shit."

"You've read Hamlet?"

"I did go to high school, yes."

"Then you know what I'm getting at."

"The dirty talk, yeah." My cheeks flush. "Ophelia knows how to get what's hers."

"Yeah."

"Are we allowed to talk about this?" I mean to sound teasing. To push him. Remind him what a hypocrite he is. Instead, my voice wavers. I stumble over the words. I'm still stiff and awkward when it comes to sex.

"As much as we're allowed to look at what's on page two hundred twenty-three." He sets the pot of water on the counter. Pulls two mugs from a high shelf.

He already has the lay of the land.

"How long have you been here?" I ask.

"A few days."

"Oh." My fingers slide over the pages as I flip to 223. It's weird, Hunter being comfortable here. Like he knows the house better than I do.

"You gonna look?"

"Timing is everything." It's a painting I haven't seen before. L'Origine du monde by Gustave Courbet. A woman, from her breasts to her knees, her legs spread, her cunt on full display.

It's practically pornography.

It's certainly erotica.

Fuck, this is in a museum and it's as erotic as anything in a dirty magazine.

No wonder all the guys at the shop got into art.

I'd be into art too if I was a horny teenage boy.

"How did you know?" I ask.

"Had the same book in high school."

"But Brendon—" Lost all the shit he had in high school after Mom kicked him out. "Never mind. Wait. Why did you have this memorized?"

"I was fourteen at the time."

"The Internet existed."

Hunter's laugh is big. Hearty.

The biggest laugh I've heard from him.

His shoulders relax. His eyes brighten. His fingers dig into his soft cotton t-shirt.

At least, it looks soft.

It looks touchable.

He looks touchable.

I want to run my fingers over the fabric. To press the cotton into his skin. Feel the hard muscles beneath it.

I want to toss that t-shirt aside.

Run my fingers over his chest and stomach.

Soak up his warmth and hardness.

Until he is hard and I'm—

Fuck.

I clear my throat.

Which does nothing to hide my blush.

I…

I can't remember the last time I thought about touching a guy.

Since that, I haven't. And now he…

I did see him naked.

I've had a crush on him since the day he taught me the f-word.

But it's more than that.

I want this guy, the one standing in the kitchen, fixing coffee, laughing about dirty art.

The obnoxious babysitter who's actually trying.

Who is going to stick with that whole no way am I touching you; you're basically your brother's property; I could never violate that.

"You there?" he asks.

"Yeah."

"Or you fantasizing about Gustave?"

"You memorized the artist's name?"

"I learned shit in high school."

"Yeah, I can see that." I shake my head. "What bullshit."

"Oh?" He brings our mugs of coffee to the counter, places one next to me, the other in front of the seat opposite mine.

"Yeah. Guys get to gawk at beaver. What do women get?"

"You've never seen David?"

"I've seen him."

"And?"

"I've seen better."

Hunter shakes his head as he moves into the kitchen to grab cream and sugar. "Better than a statue that's served as an example of the perfect male specimen for centuries?"

"Yeah."

"Better how?" He slides into the seat opposite mine.

"You really want to know?"

"Yeah. If David doesn't do it for you, who does?"

"Don't you think he's a bit… ahem?" I motion to my crotch.

His lips spread into a smile. "Really?"

"Yeah."

"Guy could be a grower."

"Still. It's a statue, not a cast. The artist could have given him a bit more."

"You know men." Hunter chuckles. "They want to look good. Artist probably wanted women looking at David then thinking damn, my man is loaded."

"Probably."

"The artist being…" He motions for me to finish the question.

"Not an impressionist. Not necessary for this test."

"Em, really?"

"Did you think I'd ask for your help if I was prepared and informed?" My brow furrows. It's not too late to call Chloe and beg for her assistance. But she lives on the other side of the Valley. And she and Dean got into that huge fight…

I can't bother her with something this trivial.

I have to accept Hunter's help.

Or fuck up this test.

And I'm not fucking up this test.

"Michelangelo," Hunter says.

"Good for him."

"It was. The ladies were knocking down his door."

"'Cause he looked so huge compared to his sculpture?"

He nods. "Exactly."

"That's ridiculous."

"But plausible."

It kind of is, actually.

And funny.

Joking with him…

It feels good.

And… fluttery.

My chest is light.

My limbs too.

I wrap my fingers around my coffee cup to ground myself.

It helps.

And, fuck, this is amazing.

"Thanks." I take another sip. Swallow hard. "You're gifted."

"Coffee and tattoos."

"Is that how you got into it?" I motion to the dirty painting. "Love of art?"

Again, he laughs.

Again, his eyes brighten.

My stomach flutters.

The air gets warmer. Sharper. More electric.

"No. My brother Chase. He was artsy and I thought he was the coolest dude in the world. Wanted to be exactly like him."

"Now?"

"Chase is a tattoo artist too." Joy fades from his face the second he says his brother's name.

It's not rocket science.

His brother is a tattoo artist.

He's from Los Angeles.

But he's staying here and working at Inked Hearts. Not staying with his brother, working at his shop.

There's a story there too.

But his expression is a brick wall. He doesn't want me to know.

Usually, I turn around when I hit a wall.

I don't try to dig deeper. Unless it's Kaylee, and, even then, I give her space.

But I want to know.

I want to know why Hunter is here.

Why he's shouldering all this baggage.

"Older?" I pick an innocuous question. One that might tempt him to answer.

"Yeah."

"You had two brothers, right?"

He nods. "One older. One younger."

"Both hot?"

"Yeah. Why?"

"Well, you're good looking, but your personality is atrocious. I was thinking maybe one of them might be as beautiful inside as out."

"They might. But I'm not gonna introduce you."

"Because they're not the kind of guys I should date?"

"You're too young."

"But one is younger."

"Not that much younger."

"Does it get tiring holding up the patriarchy?"

He flexes his bicep. "How do you think I got these guns?"

I can't help but laugh.

He's being annoying and over protective, but it's kind of sweet.

I'm not supposed to like this.

I'm not supposed to need it.

For nineteen years, I've hated having an army of guys treating me like a kid who needed protection.

Suddenly wanting that…

It means something changed.

And that's not okay.

I need to prove nothing has changed.

But what the hell does that mean?

I used to date, but it wasn't to make a point. It was because it was fun. Because a cute guy asked. Because I had a free Saturday night when Kaylee was working.

Now, all I do is work and study.

Hunter…

Maybe we can't date.

But we can be friends.

And that's progress.

I think.

Either way, it's a concern for tomorrow.

First step, ace test.

Second step, figure out my shit.

I take another sip of coffee. Let the caffeine wake my brain. Inspire a great devotion to mastering impressionism.

It inspires a devotion to caffeine.

But that's close enough.

"When's the last time you studied?" I lean back in my chair. Force myself to look Hunter in the eyes.

"You want my help or not?"

"So far you've provided none."

"What do you call that?" He motions to my coffee.

"I can make coffee."

"That good?"

No, but I'm not admitting that. "Clock's ticking."

"You have flash cards?"

"Yeah. Of course."

He motions give me.

I do.

He motions to my stack of pens. Can I take one?

I nod.

He picks up a black pen. Looks at the chapter notes. Draws a perfect approximation of Water Lilies.

Okay, maybe it isn't perfect. But considering it's black on white paper, it's close.

It's badass, actually.

"What's on this test?" he asks.

"I'm not sure. The professor said that we'll be fine as long as we've done the reading and paid attention."

"Have you?"

"Yeah, but professors always say that."

"What is it you don't get?"

"It all looks the same. I can memorize which is which, yeah. But if you showed me a painting I hadn't seen, I couldn't tell you if it was Van Gogh or Monet or Renoir."

"Really?"

"Yeah." I fold my arms over my chest reflexively. Deep breath. Slow exhale. This isn't a time to be defensive. He's helping. He's trying. I do appreciate that. "Art isn't a big thing to me."

"You want to own a boutique."

"Yeah…"

"Fashion is art."

"Yeah, but it's democratized."

"Thousand-dollar purses are democratic?"

"Hell yeah. Go America."

Again, his chuckle fills the room. It's low. Hearty.

Hot as hell.

It hits me somewhere deep.

Makes my chest warm.

Makes my sex ache.

"Fashion is as elitist now as paintings were in the Renaissance. Only the rich and famous can afford a fancy designer outfit," he says.

"No. They can buy a wallet or a small hand bag. You aren't up with the times. Luxury has been scaled down. I was just reading this book—"

"Huh?"

"What? I can't read?"

"No. Just—"

"You really don't know me at all, Hunter. Don't tell me what I can do."

"Methinks the lady doth protest too much." He copies my Shakespearean insult.

I flip him off.

He laughs.

Again, my chest warms.

God, this feels good.

I need more of it.

I need to keep him up all night.

"My boutique is going to support local, indie designers. And maybe some of that cheap stuff that's made in China. Girl has to have margins."

He nods. "She does."

"I've learned some stuff working at Inked Hearts."

"Is that why you do it?"

"Yeah."

"You want to learn more?"

My heart thuds against my chest. Do I want to learn more about running the business? Why doesn't he ask if I'd like more coffee? Or chocolate? Or a Disney movie marathon?

I'm dying to learn.

But Brendon and Ryan are the only guys who actually focus on business.

Brendon tells me to focus on school.

Ryan…

He's not so prickly now that he's madly in love with Leighton, but he's still somewhat… unapproachable.

I swallow hard.

I need to under sell how much I want this. "That's what I'm studying. Business."

"So why Art History?"

"And Fashion Design."

"You thought it would be an easy A."

"Easier than some of my options. Nothing is an easy A for me."

He nods. "I get that."

"You do?"

"Most people who are good in school don't end up tattoo artists."

Probably true.

"Brought home straight Cs all through high school."

"I managed Bs." Just barely. And only because of Kaylee's help. But I did. "Mostly."

"That's good."

"Maybe."

"It is. Especially if you worked for it." His blue eyes get intense. It means something to him, me believing this. Taking his compliment.

"Will you show me more? About running the business?" I press my palms together. Pretend as if I'm utterly apathetic to the thought of learning more.

"If you get at least a B on this test."

Fuck. "You're offering me more learning as a reward for learning?"

"Yeah."

"Fine. But you should know something, Hunter."

"Oh?"

"If you're going to keep making my life difficult, I'm going to do the same."

"Difficult, huh?"

I nod.

"All right. Noted."

"Good."

"Now, tell me the defining features of the impressionist movement."

I do.

He quizzes me for an hour. Then another.

It feels like we go all night.

We don't stop until I'm about to fall asleep at the table.

Hunter practically carries me up the stairs. He makes sure I brush my teeth and change into my pajamas.

He practically tucks me into bed.

For the first time in forever, I fall asleep easily. Go without a nightmare.

He's annoying as hell.

But I like having him here.

I like him, period.

Three months without feeling a thing for any guy, anywhere, and I like the one guy I can't have.

Figures.