Total pages in book: 56
Estimated words: 52779 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 264(@200wpm)___ 211(@250wpm)___ 176(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 52779 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 264(@200wpm)___ 211(@250wpm)___ 176(@300wpm)
“Tim gave me a good deal on this one. I set him up in a shop and got him back on his feet. Old dude’s still there twenty-five years later, doing tattoos and piercings, got three other guys working with him.”
He gives a half smile like it’s just a pleasant memory that he was a teenager whose reckless behavior landed him in jail. Where he proceeded to pluck an incarcerated vagrant from his fate and set him up with a job and livelihood. His guileless kindness, his generosity are too potent to look at him directly now. I feel the whole catastrophe start. I’m tumbling right off the cliff headfirst into love with him.
“I’d compliment you on turning his life around and helping him out but I don’t want to add to my workload having to manage the books for another nonprofit to hide your goodness. So, what’s it a tattoo of?’
“It’s the blueprint of Fenway Park. Even though the Sox break my heart every damn year.”
“You got the entire blueprint of Fenway Park tattooed on your chest and shoulder? How long did that take?”
“A long fuckin’ time.” He chuckles.
“Do you mind if I—?” I ask and leave my seat to lean in for a closer look.
“Sure,” he says and sits back in his chair a little so I can see. My fingers itch to trace the delicate lines etched in his skin. I turn my lips under and furrow my brow in concentration. I do not allow myself to breathe through my nose because I’ll smell the distinct and heady scent of him at this proximity. I’m holding together by a very thin thread and one whiff of him will make my knees crumple till I’m on the floor beside his chair. Ready to offer something I shouldn’t even consider.
“It’s beautiful,” I say.
“Thanks. I always liked it. I have five or six more. Tim did all of them.”
“Loyalty. Why am I not surprised?” I say as I step back.
“You’re flattering me again. I have a reputation to protect. Don’t go spreading that around.”
“You can’t tell me a sweet story like that and expect me not to react. I’m not made of stone,” I grumble. “If you don’t like compliments start acting like a jerk.”
“I’ll put that on my list,” he says sarcastically and starts to button his shirt.
“Finally, now I can concentrate on work,” I quip.
Suddenly, the smile slips from his face. “I didn’t make you uncomfortable, did I?”
My brain starts to whirl in my skull. “No, not at all.”
“Are you sure? I mean, I realize I had my damn shirt open in the office,” he says as if he’s actually only now realizing it.
I feel the need to reassure him, only I go too far. “It’s not a problem Mick. I wasn’t uncomfortable. You could never make me feel uncomfortable. Never. No matter what lines you cross.”
Well shit.
“Don’t tell me that,” he says quietly. “Swear to God the last thing you need to say to me is something like that. It’s like an engraved invitation to be my worst self. There’s lines all around you. Don’t you know that? There’s the red line about a mile wide that says you work for me and then there’s the death trap around you with signs saying ‘Rory’s little sister! Do not touch!’”
“You may think that,” I say, hardly knowing my own voice or what I’m saying, “But you put those lines there. I don’t see them at all anymore.” That’s the most dangerous thing of all. Not that there are sacred trusts we can’t breach or lines we can’t cross, but the fact that all that doesn’t matter. I’ve said way too much. I might as well have climbed up on the table and stripped off my ridiculous, modest outfit and lay myself out bare in front of him.
I see his hands on the table. First he holds them out palms up as if helpless. Now though, they’re balled up in fists, knuckles going white. I wish they were in my hair or on my hips, thick fingers pressing into my bare flesh.
“Don’t do this to me, Katie. You got it all mixed up thinking I’m some kinda saint. Don’t trust me this far.”
“I do trust you. There’s not a limit on that either.”
“Then you need some goddamn limits. What are you trying to do?”
“Make a fool of myself it looks like,” I say ruefully.
“Do you know how hard I have to fight myself every day, every time I’m in a room with you?’
“Then why ask me to come here? To the crow’s nest where you know we’re alone and it’s private?”
“You know why.”
“It’s your favorite? You don’t like to be disturbed in a meeting?”
“Don’t play dumb with me,” he says.
“You want me?” I ask and feel absolutely clueless. Does he? Is he suffering just as much as I am?