“Let’s go to the breakroom.” I head toward the back of the shop.
“Can we go to your space instead?” she asks from behind me, her fingers grazing my hip.
My gut clenches at the light touch, the muscles wrenching hard. What would she do if she guessed the extent of her effect on me? How would she react if she knew that every time I look at her, inhale her scent, hear her throaty, 1-800-Fuck-Me voice, I fight the urge to shove her against the nearest wall, bury myself inside her, and pound into her until her screams break around my ears and her nails leave dents in my skin?
Would she run from me? Glare at me with disgust? Make sure she was never alone with me?
Like she is now.
Yeah, if Eden had the faintest hint of how dirty I want to get with her, no way in hell would she be asking to see me behind a closed door, away from prying eyes.
But the truth is there’s no one she’s safer with than me. And not just because she’s Connor’s wife or I’m chained by a promise. It’s because Eden doesn’t want me. From the moment I laid eyes on her five years ago and craved her, she looked past me and only saw Connor.
Shaking my head against the memories and the old, acrid bitterness crawling into my chest, I enter my room and, crossing my arms, wait for her to close the door.
“What’s with all the secrecy?” I press, deliberately focusing on her face and each adorable freckle instead of the curves of her breasts beneath her form-fitting black sweater. Especially because she’s doing that shoulders-back, chest-out thing again. Sighing, I cock my head to the side. “What are you nervous about, Eden?”
She frowns as if I’ve offended her. I smother a snort. More like called her on her shit. “I’m not nervous,” she objects, moving farther into the room and closer to me. So close, I can easily catch her sunshine-and-fruit fragrance.
Would that scent be heavier, more saturated, like rain-soaked earth when she’s aroused? When she’s wet?
Fuckingfocus.
“What’s going on, then?” I demand, the warring need to get closer and need to escape roughening my voice. “Something has you wired.”
“Fine,” she grumbles and blows out a breath. “I checked your schedule, and you don’t have any appointments booked for the rest of the evening.”
“Okay.” Not surprising. It’s a Tuesday, and the beginning of the week is always slower. “So?”
“I—” She breaks off, drags her fingers through her hair, and looses a soft chuckle that slides over my skin like a silken caress. “I have no idea why this is so hard for me to say. I’m twenty-four, damn it, not four.” Her gaze locks with mine. “I want a tattoo.”
Surprise whips through me. Yeah, because I expected something more…I don’t know…cataclysmic, given her behavior. But also because Eden is a tattoo virgin. Even though she’s worked in my shop for the last year and has been surrounded by people who wear more ink than clothes, she hasn’t ever expressed a desire to change that status.
“And I want you to do it,” she adds. “Will you?”
Have my hands on her body? Skin to skin?Hell no. “Yeah.”
Relief crosses her face, and she nods. But there’s more; she’s not finished. I can tell by the ballet position. Unease curls inside me, squirming and coiling. I almost tell her “never mind.”
“I’m moving out of your parents’ house.”
Well, fuck.
I don’t know about cataclysmic, but shit’s definitely about to hit the fan.
Chapter Two
Eden
Knox stares at me. Blinks. Stares some more.
I think I’ve sent him into shock.
That blink is a dead giveaway. For Knox The-Sphinx-Ain’t-Got-Shit-On-Me Gordon, that one tiny tell is the equivalent of me knocking him on his ass.
“Well?” I press, fighting not to tangle my fingers together and twist them in front of me like some damsel in distress. Or a teenager being called on the carpet by a parent. Growing up in a house with an alcoholic father, I used to be as nervous as the ex of a rapper with a single about to drop. Finger-twisting is just one of my habits. But over the years, I’ve learned to control them, hating any sign of weakness. Except around Knox. Nothing—or no one—can bring out my nerves like Knox. He can be…intimidating. Yet, there’s no one I trust more. “Say something.”
Another blink. “Something.”
