Page 21 of The Heart Breaker

I glance up and find her already looking at me, the usual attitude gone. Her throat moves when she swallows, and I know she’s thinking about it too.

My hand is still on her ass, and all I can think about is how easy it would be for this to go somewhere it shouldn’t. Three hours of this—her in my chair, me trying not to react, her catching every slip, every crack in the control I’m barely hanging on to.

Fuck that.

I’m not giving her that.

I stand, tear off my gloves, and toss them in the bin.

“I’m not doing this.”

Her head snaps up. “What? Why?”

Because you’re already too far under my skin, and I’m not about to sit here for the next three hours pretending otherwise. Because I remember every second of that night, and I hate what it does to me. Because if I keep my hands on you, I’m going to lose every ounce of control I have left.

Because you ruined my life and I’ll never forget it.

I drag my tongue over my teeth. “We’re closed. And this isn’t some tiny ankle tattoo I can knock out in forty minutes.”

She swings her legs off the chair and yanks her skirt back down. “I told you I wanted to make a booking.”

“Not happening. Either go somewhere else or come back when I’m not here. I don’t tattoo snakes.”

She goes quiet. I’ve got no idea what kind of look she’s giving me, because I’m doing everything I can not to lift my head and find out.

A few seconds later, the chair scrapes against the floor, and out of the corner of my eye, I catch her snatching her jacket off the counter and dragging it toward her.

“You’re such an asshole.”

She walks out of the room, her footsteps fading down the hall until I hear the bell at the front of the shop clang when she yanks the door open. It slams shut behind her and then it’s quiet again.

Too quiet.

I stare at the empty chair like an idiot for way too long before I drag a hand down my face, chewing my gum hard enough to crack a tooth.

Fuck, I can’t stand her.

I hate that she barely even blinked before lifting her skirt. Hate that she remembers that night just as clearly as I do, no matter how hard she tries to act like she doesn’t.

But what I hate most is that the thought of three hours with my hands on her didn’t turn my stomach.

It should have.

After everything she’s said, everything she’s done, after years of the two of us turning every room we step into a war zone, I should want nothing to do with her.

Instead, all I can think about is getting my hands on her again.

And I hate myself for it.

9

AURORA

The only time my brain ever really shuts up is when I’m painting.

When I’ve got paint on my fingers and a page in front of me, everything else goes a little quieter.

I drag the brush along the edge of her mouth, then soften it with a dry brush, pressing my lips together as I tilt my head and study the painting. Not right. Close, but not right. I reach for another brush and mix a paler gray, adding the faintest highlight to the waterline until her eyes finally look glossy enough to make it seem like tears are building up.