the front counter, where I close my sketchbook and double-check the client schedule. We pull twin stools up to the counter and he sits closer to me than necessary. The warmth of his arm, the coffee, and the summer air sink contentment deep into my belly.
It feels so … safe.
It feels totally foreign.
A girl on her own can’t be too careful, can’t go out without her guard up. I don’t have a safety net or a backup plan—I’ve always had to be my own sword and shield.
So to have this man looking out for me on something as simple and complicated as a contract, to chase what’s-your-story Jeff Collins out of my shop, and to pull his stool close enough that he can rest his hand lightly on the small of my back … it’s nothing, but it means everything .
It’s finding a ten-dollar bill in my jeans when I’m out of cash and payday is days away. It means living a bit, instead of just scraping by.
Dave’s breath sweeps over my neck as he explains points in the contract and I turn to face him, our faces just inches apart. A slow smile curves on his lips and his dark eyes drop to my lips for a moment. His hand flexes lightly on my back.
“Were you listening to me?” There’s humor in his voice, and more of that warmth I want to wrap around myself.
“No.” I whisper my confession.
Gentle hands flip the contract back to the first page where red lines strike out paragraphs in the contract and add new ones. “No problem. I just wanted to show you what I got from the attorney. Here’s the part where we’re limiting what the gallery can do with reprints.”
He gives me a moment to scan it, then flips to the next page. “And this part talks about your commission split. Basically, it’s an accelerator clause that says the more you sell, the higher percentage you make on each piece.”
I nod, painfully aware I’m out of my depth on this. But Dave’s quiet coaching soothes me, and through twenty-odd pages he patiently explains, answers questions, and talks me through what-ifs until I feel like I’m ready for this.
When the last page is flipped over, he rotates his body on the stool so I’m surrounded by his thighs. One hand still makes little circles with his thumb on my back, the other rests on my knee, like he can’t help but touch me. Like it comes naturally.
I raise my eyes from the contract to meet his gaze and it steals the breath from my lungs. His typical warmth has transformed into furnace-level intensity.
Holy shit. My body freezes me in place, my nipples pebbling beneath my T-shirt, my thighs squeezing together with unexpected heat.
Being with Dave is like jacking up the contrast on a photo until everything takes on a psychedelic vibrancy. And it’s too much, color overload, lust threatening to short-circuit my brain.
I take a sharp breath and force myself to draw back, as far as I can move without toppling off the stool. “I don’t think this is a good idea,” I whisper.
“The contract? I thought you just said everything makes sense.”
“That does.” My eyes flick to the paper, and then back to Dave. Even though my body craves him, my brain is sending run run run signals, a fierce instinct to protect myself rather than letting him protect me. Because he might fail. “But you don’t. We don’t. We shouldn’t do this.”
I’m edging away as Dave moves closer, his lips practically screaming at me to take another taste. I feel myself tipping, unbalanced, and my instinct wins—I grab his arm to pull myself back from falling off the stool and it brings me a breath from his face.
He doesn’t give back an inch of my personal space. His expression is open and tempting, waiting for me to take what he’s offering. I inhale his scent, mint and cut pine. It transports me from a sweaty August to the December tree lots, where I’d pretend to escape the city for a walk in the woods.
With the exception of the one crazy plane ticket from Nancy that took me to Europe, I’ve never
It feels so … safe.
It feels totally foreign.
A girl on her own can’t be too careful, can’t go out without her guard up. I don’t have a safety net or a backup plan—I’ve always had to be my own sword and shield.
So to have this man looking out for me on something as simple and complicated as a contract, to chase what’s-your-story Jeff Collins out of my shop, and to pull his stool close enough that he can rest his hand lightly on the small of my back … it’s nothing, but it means everything .
It’s finding a ten-dollar bill in my jeans when I’m out of cash and payday is days away. It means living a bit, instead of just scraping by.
Dave’s breath sweeps over my neck as he explains points in the contract and I turn to face him, our faces just inches apart. A slow smile curves on his lips and his dark eyes drop to my lips for a moment. His hand flexes lightly on my back.
“Were you listening to me?” There’s humor in his voice, and more of that warmth I want to wrap around myself.
“No.” I whisper my confession.
Gentle hands flip the contract back to the first page where red lines strike out paragraphs in the contract and add new ones. “No problem. I just wanted to show you what I got from the attorney. Here’s the part where we’re limiting what the gallery can do with reprints.”
He gives me a moment to scan it, then flips to the next page. “And this part talks about your commission split. Basically, it’s an accelerator clause that says the more you sell, the higher percentage you make on each piece.”
I nod, painfully aware I’m out of my depth on this. But Dave’s quiet coaching soothes me, and through twenty-odd pages he patiently explains, answers questions, and talks me through what-ifs until I feel like I’m ready for this.
When the last page is flipped over, he rotates his body on the stool so I’m surrounded by his thighs. One hand still makes little circles with his thumb on my back, the other rests on my knee, like he can’t help but touch me. Like it comes naturally.
I raise my eyes from the contract to meet his gaze and it steals the breath from my lungs. His typical warmth has transformed into furnace-level intensity.
Holy shit. My body freezes me in place, my nipples pebbling beneath my T-shirt, my thighs squeezing together with unexpected heat.
Being with Dave is like jacking up the contrast on a photo until everything takes on a psychedelic vibrancy. And it’s too much, color overload, lust threatening to short-circuit my brain.
I take a sharp breath and force myself to draw back, as far as I can move without toppling off the stool. “I don’t think this is a good idea,” I whisper.
“The contract? I thought you just said everything makes sense.”
“That does.” My eyes flick to the paper, and then back to Dave. Even though my body craves him, my brain is sending run run run signals, a fierce instinct to protect myself rather than letting him protect me. Because he might fail. “But you don’t. We don’t. We shouldn’t do this.”
I’m edging away as Dave moves closer, his lips practically screaming at me to take another taste. I feel myself tipping, unbalanced, and my instinct wins—I grab his arm to pull myself back from falling off the stool and it brings me a breath from his face.
He doesn’t give back an inch of my personal space. His expression is open and tempting, waiting for me to take what he’s offering. I inhale his scent, mint and cut pine. It transports me from a sweaty August to the December tree lots, where I’d pretend to escape the city for a walk in the woods.
With the exception of the one crazy plane ticket from Nancy that took me to Europe, I’ve never
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