Kaylee steps off the escalator and surveys the expansive room. "This is huge."

Her smile spreads a little wider. She turns back to the warehouse packed with fake rooms and apartments and takes another step down the glossy white-grey path.

Usually, I find this place depressing. Manufactured. Fake.

But the way Kay is trotting to the faux studio apartment on our left, running her fingers over the light wood bookshelf, crouching down to pick up the thick dictionaries on the bottom shelf...

Fuck, her joy does something to me.

Something I'm not used to.

She puts the dictionary away, pushes herself to her feet, and moves into the room.

The faux apartment suits her.

There's a tiny silver and white kitchen against the "wall." A white cloth futon next to the bookshelf. A TV nestled into a tiny stand—one adorned with vases flush with silk flowers.

Kaylee plops onto the couch. Smooths her floral print dress. Takes my hand and looks up at me with those doe eyes.

It's like she's screaming please.

Fuck, the thoughts going through my head...

We're not here as foreplay.

We're not here so I can order her to strip for my viewing pleasure.

We're here because everything in her life is changing.

I'm here to be her friend.

Not to think about her hands on my zipper and her lips around my cock.

I need to get a hold of myself.

Her fingers skim my outer thigh. "The embarrassing thing... I'll tell you if you agree to help me with it."

She's sitting there waiting. Exactly where I want her.

I channel every other thought I can. Baseball. Dodgers blue. Dad whining about trades and salary caps. Explaining that if I want to waste my time playing video games, I should play one that actually teaches me something. Like his baseball management simulator.

My cock cools it.

I manage to sit next to Kaylee. "I'm not agreeing until I have more information."

Her chest spills over her dress as she leans closer. The top of her bra peeks out from the neckline. It's beige. Nearly the color of her skin.

I force myself to stare into her eyes. "That's your invitation to offer more."

"Would you rather own the shop outright or share that with Dean, Walker, and Ryan?"

"Don't worry about it, Kay."

"I'm not worried."

I've been thinking about that too. I'm a control freak. There's no denying that. But there's another part of me. One that wants teammates. That wants to let people in.

That wants someone to lean on.

"You need help with something. It's not my finances," I say.

She shakes her head. "I have this idea. We could take thirty minutes, try to find the best collection of stuff to decorate Inked Hearts properly."

"And your room?"

"That after."

"You gonna tell me?"

"If you agree to help."

I shake my head.

"Then let's go." She pushes herself to her feet. Offers her hand to shake. "Thirty minutes. We'll meet downstairs. See who gets the best stuff."

Fuck, the brightness in her eyes.

There's no way I can deny that.

This is a good idea.

Something fun.

To fill both our heads.

I nod. "You're on."

We shake. Set our timers. Go for it.

I give her a head start.

All right, I watch the way her dress falls over her ass as she walks away.

Same difference.

* * *

Thirty minutes later, I'm downstairs with a cart full of cheap decorations. White Christmas lights. Simple black frames. Rectangular black pillows. Planters full of cacti.

Eighteen-year-old Brendon would fucking kill me.

I'm yuppie scum.

And there's Kaylee with a full cart. Pink string lights. Heart pillows. Same planters full of cacti. One of those mass-produced paintings of the ocean.

She holds it up. "I just wanted to see your face."

"And?"

"Perfection." She sets it aside. "The corporations have us, huh?"

"Pretty sure I'm doomed."

"If you buy stuff at Ikea to decorate your small business, is that corporate or not?"

"Don't look at me. I didn't go to college."

"Me either. Not yet."

I never thought about those kinds of technicalities. I was an angry kid without responsibilities. One who'd never ever wanted for anything. Who'd never worried about anything.

Easy to decry three-dollar meatballs and cheap decorations when you have the time and money to make your own dinner, sew together your own jeans.

You get older. Start making compromises. Realize some of your ideals were naïve.

But owning my own business—even one adorned in Ikea decorations—that warms me like nothing else does.

She smiles. "You're going to do it."

"I was always going to do it."

"No... you weren't. I know you. I know every single one of your facial expressions."

"I have expressions?"

"Barely. But you do."

"You have a room to furnish."

"You saying you can't handle it?"

"You baiting me?"

She shakes her head.

But she is.

She has no idea how much she's baiting me.

* * *

We pick out a bed, a bookshelf, a chair, a handful of decorations. It's not a lot. Just enough for the room to scream Kaylee. Just enough for the room to feel like home.

Her eyes go to the sign next to the elevator. The ones that label the cafe on the third floor. "I guess I can give the three-dollar meatballs a chance."

"Generous."

"I think so too."

The elevator dings as its doors slide open. I motion after you.

She steps inside and presses her back against the metal wall.

I pull out my phone. Check my texts from Ryan. Manning has been an absent owner for years. Ryan and I more or less manage the place.

We try to check with each other about any changes—schedules, pricing, difficult clients, even what brand of coffee we keep on hand—but it's a formality.

Neither of us listens.

Brendon: I want to do it. Me and you. Or the four of us.

Ryan: You know I'm off relationships.

Brendon: And I?

Ryan: Only have eyes for Kaylee. You sure about this?

Brendon: Yeah.

Ryan: You call Anna?

Brendon: You call anyone?

Ryan: Fair enough. I'll let Dean and Walker know. Can you meet with a lawyer Friday?

Brendon: I'm booked all day. But I'll make it work.

"Ryan?" Kaylee asks.

"Yeah." I slip my phone into my pocket. Try to wipe my smile off my face.

She notices. Bites her lip. "You told him."

I nod.

"It's really happening?"

"There's a lot of legal shit first, but—"

She throws her arms around me and buries her head in my chest. "Congrats."

"Thanks." I press my palm between her shoulder blades, over her cardigan.

It's not like with other women.

I feel Kaylee in my bones.

She doesn't hide her sigh when she pulls back.

There's something up with her. Something she isn't saying.

Her eyes find mine. "How is he?"

"Same as always."

"Pining and moody?"

I chuckle. "Don't let him hear you say that."

"He knows."

He does. Again, I motion after you.

Kaylee nods a thank you and steps into the lobby. The cafe is around the corner. It's set up cafeteria style, with food in fridges, steam trays, baskets of fruit everywhere.

She grabs a teal tray and places it on the metal railing in front of a sneeze guard. Her gaze flits to the picture menu board. "Veggie meatballs too. This is gourmet."

I grab a tray and place it next to hers. My body begs me to move closer. To wrap my arms around her. To throw her on that table, roll her skirt up her thighs, and rub her over those cotton panties.

I'm imagining her panties.

That blue pair with Paradise written on the crotch in black.

Fuck, has there ever been an article of clothing that accurate?

I force myself to stay in place. So there's room between us.

She orders the veggie meatballs.

I get the regular meatballs. And two fountain drinks. Kay fills them. I pay.

We find a table by the window.

Yeah, it looks out on a parking lot then on the 405, but it's still a nice view. The sky is a beautiful blue. And the light from the sun is casting highlights and shadows all over the room.

Kaylee slides into the seat across from mine and hands over my iced tea. She wraps her lips around her straw and takes a long sip. "Not bad."

I motion to our plates. "All for under ten dollars."

"And..."

"Food tastes better when it's cheap."

"I get half off everything at The Pizza Kitchen. I never want to eat cheap restaurant food again." She picks up her fork, stabs a veggie meatball, holds it up and examines it. "No offense."

"If you don't like it, I'll make you something when we get home."

Her lips purse. "Or I could have an almond butter and jelly sandwich." She offers me her fork. "You want one?"

"Sure." I let my fingers brush hers as I take her fork, bring it to my lips, suck the snack off the metal silverware.

It's better than what I'd expect for three dollars, but it's not exactly fine dining.

I hand back the fork. "Not bad."

She stabs a veggie ball and stares at it like it might just kill her. "Okay. I'll give it a shot." She bites half of it, chews, swallows. "Not horrible." She stabs a piece of broccoli—her plate comes with steamed vegetables—and holds it up. "No one could mess this up, right?"

"I have faith in you."

She flips me off. Chews. Swallows.

"If you're not going to tell me, I'm going to guess."

"Huh?"

"The thing that embarrasses you."

"Oh. Well, if you agree to help..."

I nod. "Shoot."

"Fan fiction. I write fan fiction sometimes."

"Yeah?"

"Don't laugh."

I want to, but not for the reasons she thinks. Not because it's lame. Because it's so fucking Kay. "How could I possibly help?"

"Well, there's this theme I want to include in my next story. And I'm pretty sure you're the person to ask."

"Only thing I know shit about is tattooing."

She shakes her head. "No. Dean... He mentioned something." Her eyes bore into mine. "That you like to tie women up."

Fuck. Blood flees my brain at an alarming rate. It's replaced by the image of Kaylee tied to my bed, squirming under me, begging me to let her come. "Sometimes. It's not an obsession." I like having a woman on the edge. Having her desperate for me. Tying her up is the easiest way to do that. But I'm into all sorts of shit.

"Oh. Well. I, um, I thought I'd ask. If there's anything you think I should know. Or resources."

No. No fucking way. I'm not explaining bondage to Kaylee. But I don't want Dean explaining it either. "I'll send you a few links."

"Sure." She forces her lips into a smile. It's not what she wants.

She wants me explaining it.

I want to do a lot more than explain it.

"Do you... do you do that a lot?" she asks.

"Sometimes." It's been awhile. Longer than it's been since I've fucked. Playing hasn't felt right. Rough hasn't felt right. Ever since my parents died, nothing has felt quite right.

It's like Mom is in my head now.

Shaking her head of course you're into this shit, you degenerate.

Doesn't exactly help the mood.

But the thought of bending Kaylee over my knee—

Of her wrists tied to my bed—

Her thighs against my cheeks—

"You can tell me more, Brendon. I'm not an innocent flower. I read all sorts of books. I can handle an explanation."

Maybe she can.

But I can't. "There're a few good books. I'll make a list."

She nods, but there's something about it.

Like she knows exactly what I'm thinking.

Like she knows how badly I want to make her mine.