“Is that why you don’t apologize for anything?” I try to make it a joke, but when Parrish opens those honey-almond eyes of his to look at me, I get chills. He’s so beautiful, so fucking beautiful. And not just on the outside. There’s a thread of kindness in him that he tries to pretend isn’t there. By all appearances, he’s just a rich dickhead. Underneath it, he’s actually nice. Even though I just think the word, it chokes me a bit because I hate to admit it.
He helped me escape the TV studio; he held me when I cried; he tried to save my ass at the café.
“What do you think Tess is going to do?” I ask when it becomes clear he has no intention of answering me. I move into Parrish’s room, pausing beside his desk and picking up the fake hand he uses to practice his art on. It’s been inked with an incredibly complex design made up of stars and moons; every square inch is filled with color. It’s absolutely stunning, but I can’t seem to make myself say it aloud.
“Do?” he queries back, his shadow falling across the desk. He’s standing right behind me; I can feel his breath stirring my hair. Shit. Shit, shit, shit. I turn around suddenly, almost too quickly, and find myself face to face with him. Something is different between us, something that changed that day when he followed me upstairs and pulled me into his arms. “She’s already done it: do you not see the missing doors?”
Parrish plucks the hand from my grip and cradles it close to his chest, like I’ve somehow marred his precious artwork.
“Is this the tattoo you want to give me?” I ask him as he opens one of his nightstand drawers and I see a bunch of fake body parts—mostly hands and feet—stuffed into it. All of them are covered with ink. “Holy crap. When I snooped in your room before, I’ll admit: I avoided that drawer in case you had crispy socks or something in it.” A laugh escapes me as Parrish raises a single brow in surprise. “Honestly, I’m glad I didn’t look. I know those are just silicone, and that you need them for practice, but it sort of also makes you look like a serial killer.”
“Who knows?” Parrish replies, his voice surprisingly light considering the punishment Tess handed down to both of us. The scariest part of it all is that she hasn’t said a word to me about any of it. After she called us out at the café, we got in the car, came home, and handed over our electronics. She and Paul took our doors and then … that was it. Back to being WASP-y again. “Maybe I am?”
“Don’t forget: we share a hallway. I see your comings and goings.” I plop down on his bed, even though the very act of it makes him cringe. I pretend not to notice; if he asks me to leave then I’ll leave. Like I said, setting and respecting boundaries is important. “Anyway, you never answered the question: was that design for me?”
Parrish turns toward his desk—that is, away from me—and puts his hands atop it. He seems pained by something, but I’m afraid to ask. This sort of light, easy conversation is rare for us. We’re usually fighting or … making out, I guess.
“I haven’t been able to decide on a design for you.” His voice is low, thick with contemplation and maybe even a dose of surprise. When he glances over his shoulder to look at me, our gazes lock and I feel trapped in it, mired in this strange connection we’ve seemed to have since moment one. “Who the fuck are you. And what are you doing in my house?” Well, okay, maybe not since moment one … “Or maybe I’m not supposed to decide for you? Why don’t you pick something for yourself?”
“You’re the artist,” I say automatically, but then again, he has a point and I hate to admit that. “Guess it can’t hurt to give it some thought, am I right?”
“You’ll have my ink inside your skin forever.” That’s his reply. Like, really? Who says things like that? “I would say it’s definitely worth some thought.”
“There’s always laser removal.” Parrish turns the rest of the way around, perching that perfect ass of his on the edge of his desk. He folds his arms over his chest, and even though he’s wearing that stupid Whitehall hoodie of his—the gray one with the ironic best and brightest quote on it—I can see the muscular set of his shoulders. I know he works out: I’ve seen it. Did I ever mention that there’s a home gym downstairs? Did I need to? Nah, the Vanguards are that rich. The only thing we’re missing is an indoor bowling alley. Cue the eyeroll. “Well, there is.”
