Pretend You're Mine (Inked Hearts 3)

It’s hard for me to believe I’ll be enough for someone.

That I’ll be able to trust someone.

That they’ll trust me.

It's fucking everything knowing Leighton wants me like this.

But there’s still that voice in the back of my head, nagging at me, asking me if I can believe this is real.

I will get over it.

But it’s not gonna be fast. Not if my history of getting over shit is any indication.

“You sure you can handle an all black apartment?” I tease.

She laughs. “We’ll have to compromise.”

“Fuck. This might be a deal breaker.”

Her smile spreads over her cheeks. “What’s with the black sheets? I’ve only ever seen black sheets on guy’s beds when they’re goth.”

“You’ve seen that many?”

“Shut the fuck up.” She blushes. “I was never a Dean, but I… I had fun.”

“Was it fun?”

She stares into my eyes, assessing my intentions. She must decide I’m worth trusting, because she nods. “When I was bartending, yeah. That was a solid four years, I guess, of being careful with guys. I only dated guys who seemed like a good time. I made it clear I wasn’t interested in anything serious. I didn’t get invested.”

“Didn’t that get lonely?”

“Sometimes. But that was better than the alternative.” She stabs a red pepper and brings it to her mouth.

“Getting hurt?”

“Yeah.” She scoops eggs into her mouth, chews, swallows. “I did enough of that in high school. Fell for the whole I love you, honey. Let’s make love bullshit. Let guys treat me like crap because I believed they’d change. Before I gave up on my mom, I still believed people could change.”

“And now?”

“I don’t know. You’ve changed.”

“You have too.”

“Maybe.”

“You’re starting your own business.”

“Eventually.” She finishes her last sip of coffee. “In a long, long time.”

“It will come up fast.”

She sets her mug down. Traces its rim. “I know. But I don’t want to talk about leaving.”

Fair enough. I nod. Inhale my food. She worked me hard last night. I’m starving.

“I guess I gave up on guys long before I gave up on my mom. There wasn’t really anything notable. Just a long string of shitty boyfriends. One day, I was at work, crying in the bathroom because I’d just gotten dumped via text, again, and I decided I was done. I was done choosing the wrong men.”

“Did it work?”