I punch his shoulder and point toward the door.
Next time he fake kisses me, I have to remember to tell him not to use tongue. I wipe the back of my hand across my mouth and watch him leave. He waves and blows me a kiss.
Logan throws up a hand to get my attention. You’re playing with fire, he warns. He jerks his thumb toward the curtain. He’s pissed. He must not want Paul to hear him or he would be talking instead of signing.
I wave a breezy hand at him. He’ll have to get over it.
He looks toward the curtain. You should go talk to him.
Why?
Because he still has a client out here, and he had to leave because you were sucking face with the other guy.
Crap. Paul walked away with a client in his chair. With a half-finished tat. He has no right to be angry.
Logan’s brow arches, and he shakes his head.
Well, he doesn’t.
Quit being a baby, he signs. He jerks his thumb toward the curtain again. Go talk to him.
I heave a sigh and go to get Paul out of his snit.
Paul
I can’t f**king believe she brought that man here. To my shop. Where I work. Hell, it’s where I live.
I lean against the counter and balance myself on my palms. My forehead rests against the upper cabinet, and I force myself to take a deep breath and count to ten. It was all I could do not to jerk him off her and show him the door. With my foot up his ass.
One of my brothers left shit on the counter that should have been put away, so I clean up and slam the cabinet door. That feels a little better, but not much. I can just imagine that douche in the front of the shop. He’s probably got his hand all the way up her shirt by now.
I slam another door.
The curtain rattles behind me, and a breeze tickles the back of my neck as someone walks into the space. “Not now,” I grind out.
“Then when?” she tosses back.
Great. It would be her that came to get me. I knew it was her. No one else makes the hair on my arms stand up or gives me f**king chills. Not to mention that the perfume she wears gets to me before her voice does. It reaches across the room, creeps up my nose, and wraps itself around my heart. I lower my head and grit my teeth. “Go away, Friday,” I say.
“You have a client waiting,” she says, as though I don’t know.
“I’m aware.”“Then what the f**k are you doing?” she asks.
Friday is the only one who talks to me like that in my shop. She calls me on my shit, and she has since the day she first walked in here. She was eighteen years old, and she had just started at NYU. She walked in looking like she was lost, and I hired her on the spot when she told me what was wrong with the tattoo on the side of my neck. She told me how she would change it and that any good artist would have known that it was placed wrong. She pulled out a sheet of paper and drew a quick sketch of a new design.
“Want a job?” I’d said.
“Yeah,” she’d replied. “But only if you’ll fix that f**king tattoo so I don’t have to look at that monstrosity every f**king day.”
I’d grinned. Hell, the thought of it still makes me grin. Logan had fixed the tattoo that day, and she’d started working for me. That was four years ago. Four f**king years of looking at her beautiful legs and red lips. Every. Single. Day. Four years of watching her and wanting her. Four years of lusting over Friday. Four years with her busting my chops.
“I’ll finish in a minute,” I say. I heave a sigh and drop heavily into a chair. Friday wears me the f**k out.
She puts her hands on her hips and glares at me. “Why?”
“Why what?” I force myself to look at her face instead of her rack. She has the most beautiful rack I have ever seen, and I’ve been looking at it long enough to know.
“Why are you back here instead of out there working?”
Because I couldn’t watch you sucking face with that douche. “I told you, I’m taking a break.” I give her a what-the-fuck look. If I let her think she’s gone mental, I can blame it all on her, right?
“But why?” she asks. She stomps that little foot of hers, and it immediately draws my attention to her feet, and then up her legs, and then… God. I swipe a hand down my face. “Why, Paul?”
“Who’s the douche?” I ask, instead of telling her how I’m feeling.
“What douche?” She still has her hands on her hips.
“The one who had his tongue down your throat.” I glare at her. But she doesn’t back down. She never does.
“His name is Garrett,” she mumbles. She is suddenly really interested in looking at the magnets on the fridge.
“Garrett is a f**kwad. Tell him to keep his dick in his pants the next time he comes in my shop.”
She blows out a breath and raises her finger to point at me, and I can tell she’s about to ream me a new one.
“Weren’t you f**king somebody else last week, Friday?” I blurt out. I want to take it back immediately because it hangs there in the air between us like a bomb about to explode.
“What?” she asks, and her voice goes soft.
“Last week it was a different guy who took you to lunch.” I grumble to myself and get up, pretending to clean the counter.
She thinks it over. “You mean Cody?”
“How many are there?”
She blinks hard. What the f**k? Friday never cries. Ever. I take a step toward her, and she steps back, putting her hand up like she’s going to push the air around me back. “How dare you?” she breathes. A tear falls over her lashes, and she swipes it away and then looks down at the back of her wet hand like she doesn’t know what the f**k a tear is.