Dean explains the shop mantra as Emma settles into her seat behind the counter.

Cute girl checks customers out. Flirts to increase the line of the tip. Takes home a small percentage of said tip on top of her salary for the trouble.

He explains it loudly, to irritate Chloe, which he does.

She rolls her eyes and stomps to the office.

He follows her.

I focus on a mock-up for an old client. Natasha. She'd get something once a year. Wake up one day inspired, beg me to squeeze her in, gush over what I whipped up in a few hours.

When inspiration struck this morning, she went into Blacklist Tattoo looking for me. Heard that I'd moved on.

I guess that's that.

Chase made it clear I wasn't welcome when he issued that ultimatum.

Time and sobriety haven't done shit to heal this.

I'm not sure anything is going to heal this.

I snap a picture of the mock-up. Send it to Natasha.

The shop is quiet. There's always noise—rock music, the hum of the tattoo gun, soft grunts—but there's no conversation.

Emma is sitting at the counter, copying notes onto a clean sheet of paper.

She looks up from her text book.

Catches me staring.

Blushes.

Because she wants me.

Or because her story about playing shitty music too loudly is bullshit.

Or because she's terrified I'll report to her brother.

Or maybe all of the above.

I want to repay the debt I owe Brendon.

But there's something else too. Something about her. Something besides her long legs and her soft lips.

Fuck, I need to get over that.

I'm helping her as a favor.

I'm not getting involved.

That's best for both of us.

Natasha sends notes on the design.

I make changes and send another snapshot.

We go through a few rounds of refinement.

As Dean and Chloe finish with their client. Run to the backroom. Get into a huge fight that has her storming out.

As Emma flirts with a walk-in.

The poor sucker wants his girlfriend's name.

I should refuse—people always regret this shit—but there's something about the look in his eyes. It almost makes me believe in love.

Eventually, my three o'clock arrives.

He goes straight to the desk.

I meet him there.

"Hey." Emma forces her red lips into a smile. "You must be John."

He nods. "And you?"

"Emma." She bats her eyelashes. Giggles loudly. "You're in great hands. I bet you'll end up with something amazing." Her cheeks flush as she looks to me. "Hunter is talented. If you can get past him thinking he's always right."

"Not sure I can," the guy says.

Emma's fake laugh is awkward. Forced.

Her brow furrows.

Her lips curl into a frown.

The realization that she's failing to flirt spreads all over her face. "Well, let me know if you need anything. Water. Or coffee." This time, she pulls off the smile.

"Yeah." My client is oblivious to her clumsiness. He's buying the flirting hook, line, and sinker.

He gives her a long once over.

His tongue slides over his lips.

His gaze shifts to her chest.

My fingers curl into fists.

My jaw cricks.

What the fuck does he think he's doing?

I shake my head. Shrug the tension from my shoulders.

Yeah, I'm keeping an eye on Emma.

But that's all it is.

One friend looking out for another.

After I finish with this guy, she flirts through checkout. Packs her stuff.

Argues with me about the two of us walking home together.

Relents with a smile.

An I want to fuck you smile.

I tell my body to cool it.

But my head still fills with thoughts of stripping her naked and driving inside her.

"So…" Emma presses her palms against her dark jeans. "Any word from Mr. Brooding Bad Boy?"

I stop at the crosswalk. Hit the button. It's a gorgeous day. The sunset streaks the sky orange. The air is cool and crisp. It even smells like fall. "Mr. Brooding Bad Boy?"

"Brendon."

I can't help but chuckle.

"Don't laugh. You're giving him a run for his money."

"Oh?"

She nods.

"Your type?"

"Yeah. Just like how you're into the daddy stuff." She shakes her head, but a smile still spreads over her red lips.

"Glad you accepted it instead of kink shaming me."

She makes a show of rolling her eyes. "I know it's been a while since we've hung out one-on-one, but I don't remember you being this annoying."

"I was. You've forgotten."

She stifles a laugh. "I still remember that time you came over to console Brendon after his girlfriend dumped him."

Fuck, I forgot about that. He barely dated. But there was one girl in high school he adored. They wrote punk lyrics together and dyed each other's hair red.

He didn't pull it off.

And, fuck, I was out of my depth with honest conversations about relationships.

"You two stayed up late drinking something you stole from your parents' liquor cabinet. Then you threw up all over my rug."

"How is your rug?"

The light switches to green. Emma looks both ways and steps into the crosswalk. "It never recovered."

"Fuck, how will I make that up to you?"

"Hmm… it's almost like you could stop babysitting me."

"But I couldn't." I've failed Brendon enough times—I sure as hell didn't help him get over his breakup. It's not happening again.

She groans in agony.

"Am I that bad?"

"It's all relative." She steps onto the sidewalk. This is the last main street before we move into the neighborhood, but this entire area is swarmed with cars. It's a mix of shops, houses, beach.

The Kane place is right on the beach in Venice Beach. No doubt it's worth multiple millions now. Brendon and Emma's parents had money.

All our parents did. It was five-figure tuition or scholarship to attend our fancy high school. And none of us were the scholarship type.

"Relative to Mr. Brooding Bad Boy," I say.

"If you follow all his orders, you're basically him."

"But I won't complain when you blast emo music."

"Thank God I have that."

My lips curl into a smile. It's weird talking with Emma.

Familiar but different.

I've seen her a dozen times in the last few years. But it's always been quick things. Her and Brendon at my birthday party. Or me at his. Or…

Well, it's always been parties.

And I've always been too busy drinking and starting shit to really talk to her.

"All right, you're babysitting me," she says.

I nod.

"So I guess we can talk."

"Horrible."

"I know, right?" She makes a show of groaning.

I can't help but laugh. She's vibrant. Bright. Full of life.

"This was your first day at Inked Hearts, huh?" she asks.

"Yeah."

"Why is it Brendon recruited you?"

"It's not obvious?" I motion to my face.

She laughs. "Yeah, that must be it. Your beauty. How could I not see that?"

I try my best easy shrug.

Her laugh gets louder. Heartier. "You should stop with that. The shrugs don't suit you."

"No?"

"No." She takes another sip. "They make you look more uncomfortable."

"That doesn't fool me."

"What doesn't?" She turns the corner. Walks past the house next to hers. Then to hers.

"You turning it around. It's not gonna get me so disoriented I forget you're going to your old place to get your stuff."

"No idea what you're talking about."

"Hate to break it to you, but Brendon briefed me."

She bites her tongue. "Brendon assigned you as my bodyguard?"

"Basically."

Frustration flares in her expression. It shutters that spark. Drains the bounciness from her voice. "Asshole."

I'm not sure if she's talking about me or him.

We both deserve it.

I'm putting what he's asking before what she wants.

"May I accompany you, Em?" I ask.

Her eyes narrow. "What if I say no?"

I stare back. You know what happens if you say no.

"It's not a request if you're coming either way."

"I'll help. It will go faster."

"Whatever." She moves to the door. Unlocks it. Steps inside.

I follow. "I'll wait here."

She shoots me a really look, then she marches up the stairs.

It takes a few minutes for her to grab suitcases and make her way to me.

She moves outside. To her car.

Stares at me like I'm the devil.

Like I've betrayed the intimacy we've built in the last twenty-four hours.

It twists something in my gut.

I'm capable of building trust with someone.

Of reaching out.

Understanding.

But I'm fucking it up again.

Classic Hunter Keating destructive shit.

I slide into the passenger seat. Turn the music to something she likes.

She shoots me a nice try look, but she still taps her fingers along with the beat.

This car is her. Bright red and messy.

It's a sedan, yeah, but it still screams with personality.

"I'm sorry your brother is over-protective." Fuck, I don't know how to get through to her. Only that I want to.

"No, you're not."

"You can pretend I'm not here."

"Whatever." She pulls out of the parking space. Turns onto a local street.

For a moment, there's nothing in the car but the breathy groan of the singer.

Then she looks to me. "Maybe we were never best friends. But you were always honest with me."

That's true enough. I nod. "Yeah."

"So don't dress up this bullshit with a bow. You're babysitting me because Brendon asked."

"I am."

"Why?"

"I owe him."

"For what?"

"Helping me out."

She rolls her eyes. "That's not an answer."

"What's the real reason why you're moving out of your apartment?"

"I told you. Noise complaint."

"Maybe we were never best friends, but you were always honest with me." I throw her words back at her.

It's the wrong thing to do.

Her eyes turn down.

Her lips curl into a frown.

Her brow furrows.

"You're an asshole," she says.

"No argument there."

Her gaze shifts to the street.

"But I'm still coming with you."