But Aiden was still impressed at my guess. “His studio is this dark, dingy little place above a—”
“Above Madame Hong’s Chinese take-out,” I finished. “Yeah. I studied him for years while trying to find my own style.”
His gaze flicked toward my discarded sketchbook on the counter. “Is that what the drawings are about?”
I hesitated.
The easy answer would’ve been a joke. Something dismissive. Something that kept him out of my life.
But I didn’t know if it was the specific look he gave me, or the fact that my fingers were still resting on his ripped abs that weakened my resolve. Because I made the split second choice to be honest about it.
“I’m working on my fine art portfolio.”
He searched my face like he was checking for sarcasm. When he found none, he said, “Cool.”
That was it. No follow-up question about why. No condescending nod. Just cool.
I pulled my hand back and busied myself with the tray, rearranging tools that didn’t need rearranging. “Yeah. I’m not just a badass in an ink shop.”
“I didn’t think you were.”
I glanced at him. “You don’t know what you thought, remember?”
He shrugged, the motion shifting the ink across his chest. I licked my lips and forced myself to look away.
“At practice tonight,” he said, his tone careful. “I realized you were right. I’m the one keeping myself on the outside of the team even though they try to make me a part of it. I never go for drinks or hang out, just because. It’s like I’ve already decided I’m not part of it, and I go out of my way to keep it like that.”
I stayed quiet.
“In the locker room, they were all showing off their Cup tattoos,” he continued. “And it hit me: that was just another thing that I’d walked out on. Another chance to be part of them, and I said no.”
“You had your reasons, and they’re not wrong.”
“It’s technically mine,” he added. “That win. That team.”
The word technically hung there, thin and defensive.
I sat on my stool and folded my hands in my lap. “I get it more than you think. That sketchbook? It’s the same thing. You’re not the only one chasing something that feels just out of reach.”
His expression shifted, and the warmth drained out of it.
“Unattainable,” he said, the word edged now.
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Sounded like it.”
He swung his legs off the chair and reached for his shirt. The movement was abrupt, fabric scraping against his skin as he yanked it over his head.
I stood up. “Aiden.”
He pushed past the curtain, stopping just on the other side, jacket bunched in his hands. The light from my station carved him out from the darker shop beyond.
When he turned back to me, his expression was guarded in a way it hadn’t been since he’d walked in. I mentally kicked myself for saying something so stupid.
“Please sit down,” I said. “I have an idea.”
5
