He hasn’t texted again. Hasn’t shown up at the studio. Hasn’t done anything remotely pushy or annoying.
Which is somehow worse.
Because now I’m the one checking my phone every five minutes. I’m the one refreshingInstagramto see if he’s posted anything. I’m the one watching sports highlights at midnight to catch thirty-second clips of him on the mound, all controlled power and devastating precision.
“You look like a teenager with a crush,” I tell my reflection in the bathroom mirror. “Pathetic.”
My reflection doesn’t argue.
By the time I’m back at my station, the studio is still blissfully quiet. It’s Friday afternoon, my last client canceled, and I’ve got three uninterrupted hours before my evening appointment. I should be sketching, finalizing designs, and doing anything remotely productive.
Instead, I’m reorganizing my ink bottles by shade for the third time this week.
The bell above the door chimes.
I don’t bother looking up as I move away from my station. “We’re by appointment only,” I call out. “There’s a number on the door.”
“I don’t have an appointment.”
My hands freeze on a bottle of midnight blue.
I know without looking.
The voice does something to my nervous system, flipping switches I didn’t know existed. My stomach drops and twists simultaneously, and there’s this electric buzz under my skin, fizzing through my veins.
Butterflies, except butterflies are delicate and fluttery, and this feels more like a swarm of bees has taken up residence in my chest.
I set the bottle down carefully and turn around.
Reece stands just inside the door, hands in his pockets, wearing jeans and a plain gray T-shirt. His hair is damp, curling slightly at the ends. He looks relaxed, casual, and absolutely unfairly attractive.
My traitorous heart does a stupid little flip.
“Studio’s closed,” I say, proud of how steady my voice sounds.
“Door was unlocked.”
“Oversight.”
“Lucky me.”
He walks farther in, and I resist the urge to back up.
This is my space.
My territory.
I don’t retreat here.
“What do you want, Reece?”
“You know what I want.”
The directness of it steals my breath. No games, no pretense. He’s looking at me with the same focused intensity he brings to the mound, and I’m suddenly very aware of how alone we are.
“I told you…”
“I know what you told me.” He stops at the front desk, one hand resting on the counter. “You set boundaries. I respected them.”
