Red, orange, yellow, and green hit the pan with a sizzle. I grate ginger over sliced bell peppers. Add rice vinegar. Stir.

The shower turns off.

Footsteps move into the hallway. “I left my change of clothes at the shop.”

Leighton is standing in the hallway, wrapped in only a black towel.

She holds it closed with one hand. Pushes her short hair behind her ear with the other.

She’s dripping wet.

But I don’t care that she’s dragging water all over the hardwood floor.

Only that she’s naked under that thin layer of cotton.

She looks so much like the Leighton I know.

Her hair is still hanging at her chin.

Her eye makeup is that same seamless line.

But her lips are bare.

Her tits—

I shake my head. Push away the mental image of her without that towel, my hand between her legs, her lips parting with a groan of pleasure.

My heart thuds against my chest.

My back tenses.

The thought of Leighton coming is hot as fuck, but it’s confusing.

Penny was the last person I touched.

She’s the only person I’ve touched.

Sex and lies are a tangled mess in my brain. What I have with Leighton is the opposite of that.

That’s why it works.

We’re honest with each other because we aren’t making each other come.

“Ryan?” She cinches her towel tighter. “Clothes?”

“You can grab a t-shirt from my dresser. Top drawer.”

“Boxers?”

“Might have a pair in the bottom drawer.”

“Is it laundry day?”

I shoot her a really look.

“Oh.” Her eyes light up. “You go commando.”

“Yeah.”

Her gaze shifts to my crotch. Her pupils dilate. Her cheeks flush. “I, um, maybe sweat pants. Or a parka. It’s freezing in here.”

“Like my soul.”

She laughs. “That was good. You’re improving.”

“You think I can’t make you laugh?”

“No.” She spins on her heels. “I think you choose not to.”

Maybe. I’ve never been a happy-go-lucky guy. I’ve always tried to have a sense of humor about myself. At least about how fucking miserable I am.

But I used to enjoy a lot more shit.

I used to smile at the guys’ stupid jokes, even when I had to keep up that I’m the boss poker face.

I move to the kitchen. Drown the images flitting through my head—Leighton stripping out of that towel, lying on my bed, spreading her legs wide and motioning come here—in fixing dinner.

I combine the chicken and vegetables, add sauce, stir, turn the pan to simmer.

Sesame oil for the finishing touch.

My bedroom door opens. Footsteps move through the hallway, into the kitchen.

Leighton smooths my black Inked Hearts t-shirt. “You’re too fit.”

“Am I?”

“Yeah.” She tugs at the pajama pants she’s wearing. “They’re tight on me.”

“Guys have narrower hips.”

“Still.”

“You gonna tell me something about how you don’t like your hips?” I force myself to stare into her eyes. “That’s ridiculous, Leigh. You know you’re hot.”

“I do?”

“You wearing those tight dresses for your health?”

“It’s hot.”

“Exactly.”

She laughs. “Another joke. I think I might be corrupting you. Tell me you’re thinking dirty thoughts.”

You have no fucking idea. “Grab your laptop. We’ll start setting up after we eat.”

The playfulness fades from her voice. “I don’t remember agreeing to this.”

“Then don’t.” I shrug, playing coy. “Grab drinks. I’ll bring the food to the table.”

She rises to her tiptoes to open the top cabinet. “Bourbon or water?”

“Water.”

“Me too.”

“You don’t drink bourbon.”

“But you keep Belvedere here for me.”

I do. I keep a lot of shit here for Leighton, even though we do most of our hanging elsewhere.

“It’s wrong when it’s too hot for vodka.”

“I thought it was as cold as my soul in here?”

“It is.” She smiles. “There’s this vodka lounge in Vegas where everything is made out of ice.”

“Is there?”

“Yeah. Even the glasses. They give you a parka so you don’t freeze to death.”

“And?” I play the straight-man.

“It was much warmer than your apartment.”

I laugh. It’s a cheesy, obvious joke. It wasn’t funny the first time. Or the second. But the fiftieth time? It feels like home. “Still don’t believe this place exists.”

“We can go right now.” She looks to the time on the microwave. “Be there by midnight.”

“Is it open?”

“It’s a bar.”

“That isn’t a yes.”

“If not, we can wait until tomorrow.” She grabs two glasses from the shelf. Her ass brushes mine as she moves to the sink, fills the cups with water. “We can one-up Penny. Get married there.”

“Crash her bachelorette party to announce it?”

“Yes. Perfect.” She brushes against me as she moves out of the kitchen. Into the main room. She sets the glasses on the table, slides into a dining chair, sits cross-legged. “Is she having a bachelorette party?”

I shrug like I don’t know.

“Ryan Maddox.” Leighton laughs. “You stalked her, didn’t you?”

“No.”

“You did.” She shakes her head with a faux tsk tsk. “And you say you’re better than all this pretending bullshit.”

“Dean informed me.”

“Is that reverse psychology?”

“He’s not smart enough for that.” I scoop food onto ceramic plates, grab silverware, bring everything to the table.

“He’s smarter than he acts.”

“Would it be possible for him to be stupider than he acts?”

Her laugh lights up her light eyes. “True.” She smiles as I hand over her fork. “This looks amazing.”

“Thanks.” I sit next to her.

“No.” She stabs a piece of chicken, brings it to her mouth, chews, talks with her mouth full. “Thank you.”

My cheeks flush. It’s weird, accepting gratitude.

I’m not used to it.

I can’t wrap my head around the idea of deserving it.

Making Leighton dinner is a selfish decision.

I want her eating with me. I want her groaning over how good the food is.

I want to fall asleep tonight, knowing she’s eating actual food.

Knowing someone is taking care of her.

I want to be that person.

“You’re welcome.” The words are awkward on my lips.

“God.” She lets out a soft moan. “You’re too good at this.”

I shoot her a curious look.

“I’m going to have to kidnap you.” She brings a slice of red pepper to her lips. “Force you to cook for me.”

“You could just ask.”

“That’s less exciting than kidnapping.”

“You want to go?” I motion to the empty area between the TV and the couch. “See if you can overpower me?”

Her teeth sink into her lip. “Is this where you invite me to karate again?”

“It’s aikido.”

“Will people hit me?”

“You spar, yeah.”

“I’m out.” She leans back in her seat. Exaggerates a sigh of defeat. “I guess I have to ask nicely.”

“I’m waiting.”

“I’m thinking about it.” She takes a long sip of her water. “Are you?”

“Leigh—”

“Was it that awful, posing for a picture with me?”

No. It felt good. Too good. “Drop it or leave.”

“You wouldn’t kick me out.”

“Try me.”

She stares into my eyes, picking me apart. She must decide I’m willing to make due on the threat, because she drops the subject in favor of taking another bite.

We eat in silence for a while. It’s not like the quiet when I’m alone. It doesn’t suffocate me.

It’s comfortable.

Easy.

Dinner is perfect, but it’s not the taste that thrills me. It’s the satisfaction spreading over her face.

I want more of it.

I want it in ways I shouldn’t.

I grab the easiest distraction I can find.

“Let’s get started.” I motion to her laptop.

“I didn’t agree.”

“Then don’t do it.”

She presses her lips together. “I run the Inked Hearts website.”

“And?”

“I know how to do this.”

“If you don’t want help—”

“I don’t want to do it at all.”

“You’re stubborn.”

“And you’re not?” She opens her laptop, types her password, turns it to me. When I don’t respond, she nods with triumph. “There are too many options.”

“Use what we use for Inked Hearts.” I type the website into the search bar. “You have a name in mind?”

“Even More Inked Hearts?”

I chuckle. “Really?”

“Inked Wing Designs.”

“That’s your tattoo.” I check that the domain is available.

“Yeah.” Awkwardness drips into her voice. “It, um… It’s alis volat propiis.”

“She flies by her own wings.”

“You know Latin?”

“Only the most popular quotes.”

“Are you calling me basic?”

I shoot her a curious look.

“What?”

“Penny used to say that.”

“Oh.” Her lip corners turn down. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“No. I don’t get it. What could possibly be bad about something being basic?”

“It’s dumb Internet culture stuff.”

“You’re saying it.” I fill the domain registration form with Leighton’s info then turn the computer to her.

“You know those girls who come into the shop in their sheepskin boots, toting Pumpkin Spice lattes, asking for kanji tattoos?”

“Yeah.” It describes a certain type of customer.

“They’re basic.”

“And?”

“Nobody wants to be ordinary.”

“It’s underrated.”

“Maybe.” She hits submit on the form then reaches over to the couch to grab her backpack. “How am I already doing this?”

“It’s what you want.”

She finds her credit card in her wallet, uses it to fill out the payment form. “It’s what you want.”

“Yeah.”

“You’re desperate to get rid of me.”

“I offer to teach you to do ink every day.”

“Why?” She looks up from the computer. “Why does it matter so much?”

“I want the best for you.”

“Even if it means me leaving the shop?”

“You can’t work our counter forever.”

“What if I want to?”

“Do you?”

Her eyes meet mine. “Well…”

“I still remember that day Dean brought you in.”

“Pointed to my cleavage and said wouldn’t you pay anything for this.”

“He’s such a fucking pig.”

She laughs. “It worked.”

Yeah, it did. But not because of her tits. “I hired you ’cause I liked you.”

“Dean hired me. You just didn’t veto it. Which is actually a lot. Now that I know you.”

“You must make less here.”

“You sign my W-2s. You know how much I make.”

More than I’d figure. But less than she deserves. She’s the only tolerable person at the shop.

A ray of sunshine on a dark night.

The warm smile that welcomes everyone.

Keeps them coming back for more.

I stare into her blue-green eyes. “How much less?”

“I don’t know. Thirty, forty percent.”

“That’s a huge pay cut.”

“I like it here.”

“That can’t be it.”

“I didn’t like it there.” Her gaze goes back to her laptop. “I was done working at a bar.”

“Dean did your rib tattoo, right?”

“And you did the dragon. And Brendon did the cherry blossom. What’s your point?”

“That was right after you quit Rock Bottom.”

“Ryan, I—”

“Why’d you leave?”

“I wanted to.”

“Can’t be the hours. You groan every time you get in at nine thirty.”

“It’s early.”

“Assholes still leer at your tits.”

“I appreciate the attention.”

I shoot her my best side-eye.

“Not all of us look like—” She looks to her computer. Taps the mouse a few times. “Romance cover models.” She turns the screen to me. Shows off the cover mock-up with me. Only now its title is Ryan and the author is Leighton Black.

“You think I can’t play this game?”

“Maybe.”

I grab my cell. Pull up my favorite graphics program. It’s a lot more streamlined than Photoshop, but it’s enough to prove my point.

She stares, tapping the table with her shiny fingernails, as I whip up a design.

I show off my finished work—a book cover with her as the model. It’s an older picture. One of her staring into the distance, her then pastel pink hair blowing in the wind, her blue-green eyes contemplative.

Same title concept. Leighton with Ryan Maddox as the author.

“Mine looks better.” She motions to her computer. “You’re a better model.”

“Or you’re a better designer.”

She shakes her head. Turns her attention back to her computer. “Domain acquired.”

“We still have to set it up.”

“Later.”

No. Now.

I need to find the source of her resistance and destroy it.

I will—she’s too good not to do this full time.

My phone’s buzz pulls me out of my thoughts.

It’s a notification from Instagram.

@P3nnyForYourThoughts likes your post.

The one of me and Leighton at the beach, close enough to touch.

“Oh. Is that her?” Leighton leans over. Her eyes go wide as she takes in my screen. “I knew she followed you.”

I guess she did.

“How does it feel?”

“Weird.” My throat is tight. The same as it was when Penny called.

But there’s this warmth in my chest.

I want to throw up.

And I want to revel in my victory.

I may be wasting my time and energy obsessing over her wedding.

But she’s wasting hers thinking of me.

She’s keeping tabs on me.

Wondering if I’ve found someone.

If I know anything about Penny, she’s asking herself if Leighton is prettier. Cooler. Smarter.

Kinkier.

She’s asking herself if I fucked Leighton behind her back.

If she somehow missed all the signs.

That’s one thing I learned about cheaters—they project their deceit right back on you.

Start accusing you of the shit they’re doing.

Looking for cracks in your story.

Digging for lies.

“Look at your face.” Leighton claps her hands together. “You want to do it. I can tell.”

I shake my head. Part of me does. But the other part is struggling to breathe.

“Let’s make a deal.”

“I have a bad feeling about this.”

She presses on. “We take another set of pictures. See how Penny reacts.”

“Leigh—”

“I let you set up my entire website.”

I shake my head. “You start accepting clients.”

Her silver fingernails tap the table. “Sure.”

She’s too relaxed. There’s some loophole here. I need to close it.

“You start advertising. Actively looking for clients,” I say.

Her blue-green eyes fill with worry. “I don’t know.”

“You’re good enough.”

“And if I’m not?”

“You are.”

“Not an answer.”

“You offered a deal. I countered. Take it or leave it.”

She stares into my eyes. “Okay. Yes.”

She’s going to actually pursue design.

Fuck, that warms me everywhere.

It opens up my airways.

I suck a deep breath through my teeth. “You’re not gonna find some bullshit loophole?”

“No. I promise.” She offers her hands. “You let me help you. I let you help me.”

“You tell me why you took the job at Inked Hearts?”

She smiles wide. “No way in hell.”

It’s still a good deal.

I take her hand.

Shake.

Let the warmth of her touch fill me everywhere.