“No,” he muttered. Her hands tensed on his shoulders.
“Well, that warms my heart that you’d draw me,” she said.
She slid her arms down his chest, leaning her weight against him. Her warm coffee smell engulfed him once more as she tucked her head into his neck. He welcomed the silence, not sure what to say or what to think. Did he find something he’d love more than his own Pack? More than the people who saved him? Comprehending how he felt about Flora was too much. His potential mate turned into a potential lifeline, and he wasn’t sure how to react.
The shrill of a phone broke the peaceful moment of groundbreaking realization. Picking up his phone, he walked out to the hallway, standing right in front of the room. There was no chance of letting anyone slip past him. Though he was dealing with a mountain of emotions, he was still on the clock.
“Hello?”
“Hey, man. A lovely little envelope with your name on it came in the mail today. From Lust Lane. Please tell me I won’t find any photos of you working on a pole in here?” Jackson joked.
“You won’t — wait, are there photos in there?”
Fear crept its way around his shoulders. Though there wouldn’t be any photos of him on a pole, there might be photos of Flora treating him like one. To save face for them both, he prayed his little slip-up wasn’t photographed.
“I don’t know, I haven’t opened it. I was only kidding. Is there something we should know?” Jackson responded seriously.
“No, just open it, Jackson,” Dylan growled, losing patience. He doubted it was a photo of him and Flora, but prayed it wasn’t. If it was, it would surely have ‘you're fired’ written on the back of it. Rubbing his hand over his forehead, the sound of ripping paper came through the phone.
“No inappropriate photos, thank God. Not something I’d want to see.” Jackson was back to joking around at this point, so Dylan relaxed, leaning back onto the door. Letting out a laugh, he was relieved his privacy was kept private.
“Jackson, what was it?”
“A big fat check; how much do you want to give to the Pack?” Jackson finally answered. Within Packs, it was normal to give a part of your earnings to the Alpha to manage. Sometimes for groceries, emergencies, Pack gifts, rent, bills, whatever else that Alpha deemed important. It was a member’s honor to give a part of their earnings to the Pack.
“All of it.” Dylan shrugged; that was the whole point of him getting a job. He had enough for himself, from past assassin jobs and whatnot. The problem was not having enough to give back to the Pack. Now he had something to give — he was a participating and deserving member.
“You don’t have to do that; you’ve done your part for this Pack,” Jackson said as he’d done again and again. It didn’t change the way Dylan felt. He used to bring in hundreds of thousands of dollars, even millions, when he was an active assassin. He was the breadwinner and he loved to provide.
“I know, I want to,” Dylan stated firmly.
“Well, if you change your mind, let me know.”
“I got to go, another day following Flora around,” Dylan said, even though they both knew there was nothing else he would rather do.
“Be careful, brother; make sure you know what you’re doing.”
“Will do.”
Ending the call, he wanted to avoid having the whole "Flora and emotions" conversation with his Alpha again. Back in the room, he found a freshly showered Flora sitting at the desk; her own sketchbook lay on the tabletop. His sketchbook, still open on the page he drew on that morning, was pushed to the side.
“How do you draw so well?” Flora grumbled, an incredibly rough copy of his own drawing on her paper.
“I'd have taken you for a tracer.” He’d seen her in her office tracing blocks of different shoe or accessory styles before adding her own style and flavor. As she said before, it was about the original design, not always the original art, in her line of business.
“I tried but I didn’t want to mess yours up,” she mumbled, turning in her chair to look at him. “I need a distraction.”
“From what?” Dylan questioned. Nothing was on the books as the meeting with the production team would take place the next day. Everything was ready: the sketches for both collections were sent in and the prototypes should have been made.
“I always get nervous before a production meeting,” she said, slouching in the chair.
Dylan sat on the end of the bed. He wasn’t sure how to help or how to comfort her.
“Okay, let’s go out,” he said.
“Are you asking me out, Dylan?” she giggled, looking suggestively at him over her shoulder.
“What if I am?” He was testing the waters, what-if's filling his thoughts. What if he let Flora slip through his fingers? Was he asking her out, not at first, but if she took it that way maybe she did like him after all…right?
