Falling In Love With You

Chapter 8

Kayla

I listened to the door slam, the vibration rattling the old glass in its frame. The silence that followed was louder than the machine I’d just turned off. I stared at the closed door for a long minute, the image of her burned into my retinas like a camera flash.

Cupcake.

The nickname had tasted like salt in my mouth, but she had looked like sugar. Too much sugar. She was exactly the kind of complication I didn't need—all soft edges, expensive smells, and a gaze that looked like it had never seen a day of real dirt in its life.

"Rich girls," I muttered, grabbing a spray bottle of disinfectant and attacking my workstation with more force than necessary. "Always looking for a story to tell at their brunch."

I could still smell her. That was the worst part. Amidst the ink and the alcohol, there was a lingering trail of something floral and high-end—jasmine, maybe, or something equally delicate that didn't belong in a basement. It made my stomach flip in a way that pissed me off.

My phone buzzed on the counter. I swiped it open with a frustrated thumb. It was a text from Sam.

SAM: Coming by the shop. Bringing beer. Don't be a d**k.

I grunted and tossed the phone back down. Ten minutes later, the bell chimed again. I didn't even look up. "If you're here to ask for a butterfly on your ankle, save us both the time and get out."

"A butterfly? Kay, I was thinking more like a full back piece of a unicorn," Sam joked, kicking the door shut. He was holding a six-pack of cheap longnecks and wearing a grin that usually meant he was about to pry into my life.

He stopped mid-stride, sniffing the air like a bloodhound. "Whoa. Since when does this place smell like a French department store?"

"It doesn't," I snapped, snatching a beer from the cardboard carrier. I popped the cap with the edge of my workbench, the metal clinking against the floor.

"Bullshit. It smells like money and bottled sunshine in here." Sam leaned against the brick wall, watching me scrub a spot on the floor that was already clean. "Did a stray socialite wander in? You look like you want to punch a wall."

"Some tourist got lost," I said, taking a long pull of the beer. The bitterness helped ground me. "High heels, silk suit, the whole deal. She probably thought this was a trendy pop-up shop. I sent her packing."

Sam raised an eyebrow. "You sent her packing? Or you were your usual charming self and scared the poor girl into therapy?"

"She was trespassing," I defended, though even to my ears, it sounded weak. "She didn't want ink, Sam. She wanted to stare. I'm not a zoo exhibit."

"Maybe she just liked the view," Sam shrugged, taking a drink. "You're a mean son of a b***h, Kay, but you're not exactly hard to look at. Maybe she was looking for a thrill."

"I don't do thrills," I said, my voice dropping an octave. I thought about the way her eyes had flashed when I called her Cupcake. There was fire there—hidden under the pearls and the polish, but it was definitely there.

I shook the thought away, the image of Diana suddenly flickering in my mind. Diana had been fire, too. But that fire had burned my house down. I wasn't striking a match for anyone ever again, especially not someone who looked like they belonged on the cover of a magazine.

"Whatever," I said, leaning back against the counter and closing my eyes. "She won't be back. Those types never come back once they see the grit under the fingernails."

But even as I said it, I felt a strange, nagging tug in my chest. A feeling that I’d just stepped into a ring with someone, and the first round wasn't actually over.