“Careful there, beautiful.”
She licks her lips, and the sight of her tongue goes straight to my cock. “What if I don’t want to be?” She lowers her eyes to my naked chest and lifts a hand, the pads of her fingers gently caressing my tats—seemingly learning them. “Careful, that is.” Her light touch makes me want to close my eyes and enjoy the sensations running through me, but instead, I watch her tracing the ink decorating my flesh. “The Little Prince?” she asks, finally looking up.
I nod and step away from her. Her question floods me with memories of Blaire and of an idyllic afternoon spent together, and all of a sudden I’m drowning in them, in her, and in the past.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Why can’t I get her out of my fucking mind?
“Did I say something wrong?” she asks, looking adorably confused.
“No, nothing wrong … “ I want to say her name, but that’s when I realize that I don’t know it. I turn to face the living room, reclining against the countertop next to her, the length of our arms touching. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Sure.”
“What’s your name?”
She laughs, and I find myself wanting to smile, but I can’t. “Don’t you think it’s a little too late for that?”
“Nope. Better late than never.”
She shakes her head and extends her hand in greeting. “My name is Rachel. Nice to meet you …?”
I take her hand in mine, but don’t move. “Ronan.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Ronan. You have a lovely apartment.” She looks away, breaking the staring contest we have going on. She focuses on a replica of a famous black and white photograph of US troops running in the water heading toward the shore.
“You have good taste in art.”
“Do you know Robert Capa?” I ask, pleasantly surprised.
“Yes, I do. I’m a big fan of his work.” She walks toward the frame to take a better look at it. “I didn’t peg you for the kind of guy to be into photography.”
I chuckle and cross my arms, my hands under my armpits. “Really?” I say wryly.
“Yes, I mean, I’m well aware that I met you at an art exhibit—”
“Almost. As I recall, we never did make it inside,” I interrupt, teasing her.
She blushes. “Semantics. Anyway, just because you were going to an exhibit doesn’t mean that you—” Her attention is caught by something lying on the floor. My blood pumping, I watch her bend over and retrieve another framed photograph. Silently cursing Jackie and wishing her to hell for that, I watch as the blonde woman admires the object in her hands. Without looking at it, I know it’s a picture of a laughing Ollie, wild hair and all, being chased by a puppy at the park. I’m proud of that one because I was able to capture in that one frame the innocence and playfulness of his personality.
“This is beautiful. Who’s the artist? I don’t recognize the work.”
I rub the back of my neck uncomfortably, cursing Jackie once again. I remember the day I came home to find her here with a bunch of my work already framed. The walls of my apartment that had been covered in photographs from people I admired were bare.
“What’s going on here?” I asked.
Hammer and screws in hand, she turned to look at me. “Hey you! Well, I hate the fact that you hide your talent, so I’m literally taking the matter into my own hands.”
“By hanging photographs on my walls without my permission?”
“Your amazing photographs, and yeah, try stopping me if you dare. You might be at least eight inches taller than me and not a skinny ten-year-old boy anymore, but I’m sure I can still kick your ass,” Jackie said, her brown eyes sparkling.