Hating You, Loving You (Inked Hearts 4)

He's sitting behind the counter, shaggy hair hanging in front of his blue eyes, attention on his sketchbook.

His expression is focused. Intense.

Some other Dean. One who takes shit seriously. Who finds pleasure in work and productivity and accomplishment.

Who doesn't live to taunt me.

He looks the same—white t-shirt hugging his shoulders, skinny jeans hugging his hips, gorgeous blue eyes on fire with something.

But everything else is different.

Maybe that's okay.

Maybe it's possible to forgive and forget. My life is bigger and broader than it was in high school. My concerns go way beyond a guy who didn't call.

A guy who didn't call…

I wish that was my biggest problem.

I roll my shoulders.

Lean my head to one side. Then the other.

I need this job. That means I need to play nice. It's possible. Really.

I go to pull the door open, but it's locked.

Dean looks up from his drawing. His focus fades as his eyes meet mine. His lips curl into a wicked smile.

The I'm fucking with you Dean.

I shift my weight from one foot to the other. Bite my lip. Play with my tank top.

He's not going to make my stomach flutter. He's not going to make me nervous. He's not going to make me feel anything. Period.

Dean moves to the door with steady footsteps. He stares into my eyes as he pulls it open. "After you."

I step inside. The bell rings as the door falls shut behind me. "Thanks."

"My pleasure." He turns. Places his body behind mine. It's a respectable, work appropriate distance—at least when your work involves touching people—but it's enough to make my stomach flutter.

My gaze shifts to the ceiling. Except for the string lights lining the room, it's plain, white. But they cast a soft pink glow over the top of the room. A pink halo.

"I should get started." I'm taking over half of Leighton's job. It's a lot of administrative work.

"After this." He motions to the office/back room.

I follow him past the counter, around the corner, into the cozy space.

It's a tiny room—smaller than my bedroom—lined with supplies on wire racks and a cheap Ikea desk. This room isn't like the rest of the shop. It's sparse. Empty. Soulless.

There's no love in this room.

Just function.

It's weird. The four guys who own the shop are artists—tattoos are art—and it shows in the main area. Hell, it shows in their clothes, their smiles, their skin.

But here?