“Aye, man. At least I planted my seed.”
“Don’t say you planted your seed.” My lip curls. “That’s disgusting.”
“Yeah.” Everett nudges Leo. “Say cream pie. It’s much classier.”
“No cream pie jokes!” our mother snipes.
“Oh, my God,” Dahlia groans, wiping a hand down her face. “I’m going to trespass you guys. You’re making the customers stare.”
I glance around; the shop has gone quiet. I also realize our dad has migrated to the back of the bakery, pretending to look at the artwork along the walls as he creates as much distance from the rest of us as possible. I don’t blame him.
“You can’t trespass me. I own this—” Leo’s stops when the bells on the front door chime again, and we all turn to find August and Darby entering together. His face brightens immediately. “My Honeysuckle. How are you feeling?”
“Like a planet.” She sighs as his arm snaps out, tugging her against his chest.
He plants his lips against the top of her head as his hand splays across her ever-growing belly. “Oh, no, baby. You’re not a planet. You’re the whole goddamn universe.”
Darby laughs as Leo spins her so that her back rests against his front, resting his chin atop her head, swaying in place. “How was your session, Auggie?”
August’s eyes meet mine, just briefly. They look clear, and he smiles softly, though I can’t quite make out the meaning behind it. “It was good.”
I force a smile back. He was persistent in his encouragement the other night for me to seek therapy, and my instinct was to shut it down. I won’t tell him—any of them—this, but his words stuck with me the last three days since I fell asleep against his chest.
I haven’t slept in his arms again, haven’t been back in his room. I called out from work the next morning, my symptoms still pretty severe, but I didn’t allow August to take care of me like that again. It was too vulnerable, and I needed time to process. By yesterday morning, I was feeling myself, but we’ve been working opposite schedules, so I haven’t seen him much.
We have a lot we need to address, and both of us keep tiptoeing around it.
“Are you going home now or going back to work?” Everett asks August.
“Work,” he says. “I promised Maggie I’d finish a thigh piece of hers I’ve been working on, but we’ve been busier than expected so I haven’t had the chance, and she’s been asking for months.”
A slow ache builds in the pit of my stomach at the reminder that August spends most of his days touching other women’s bodies, but I know it’s not right of me. That’s his work, and his art, and he’s professional. I’m well-fucking-aware just how strict his sense of professionalism is when it comes to his business.
Plus, I don’t have a claim on him. Other than the fact that anyone out there who gets him naked is going to be subjected to seeing my name all over his thigh.
That gives me a sick sense of satisfaction.
“Oh, Maggie, huh?” Leo raises his brows. “How’s that going?”
What. The. Fuck.
August’s eyes flash to mine, assessing, before turning back to my brother. “That’s nothing.”
“Is ‘nothing’ a new code word for fucking? Because Dahlia doesn’t want us to cuss in the coffee shop?”
“I didn’t know that was a rule,” August muses, lips twitching. Like the jokes about him fucking some random girl right in front of me are funny?
I take back my former thoughts, that ache rising to the surface of my being like a molten rage. I may not have a claim on Augustus Hayes, but I never signed up to be a fucking side piece. I think back on every conversation we’ve had since I moved in with him, and he never mentioned seeing someone, but he didn’t mention not seeing someone either.
And if he’s tattooing her…
Fuck. Rage clogs my throat, tears stinging the corners of my eyes. I know how intimate inking someone’s skin is when you’re emotionally attached to them. How vulnerable it is to claim someone’s body that way when it’s also a claim to their soul. I know what it means to August to connect with a lover in that capacity and…fuck.
I feel sick.
I’ve made regrettable choices in my past where he is concerned, but I never allowed someone else to touch me with a needle. Especially not someone I’d fucked. Because that’s all it ever was—fucking. There was no emotion, no care, no love. I didn’t think it was possible to create art on someone’s body when you’re having sex with them without attaching all of those other things.
My family continues to hold conversation around me, and I can feel his stare burn into the side of my face, but I ignore it. Pulling off my apron, I mutter, “Well, my shift is over.”
