So, deciding to do something about it, I hurry toward the front door, gather my purse, cell, and keys, and ditch my apartment before I can think better of it. With a destination set in my mind, I unlock my phone and pull up my messages, pressing on Rayne’s name and typing out a message as I wait for the elevator I can actually use now.
With a deep breath, I press send and step onto the elevator as soon as the doors open. There’s a smile on my face I can’t wipe away, a giddiness in my chest, and a delirious happiness that hovers all around me as I lean back against the windowed wall, and it remains the entire time I walk to my car and go about my morning.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Maddie
MADDIE:How many people work at your studio, and do any of them have any allergies?
RAYNE:Four and a half, including me. Why?
MADDIE:Nunya.
RAYNE:What? What’s Nunya?
MADDIE:Nunya business.
RAYNE:I’m blocking you.
MADDIE:Suit yourself. I’ll just turn the Jeep around, then.
RAYNE:See you in a minute.
Reading over the texts again as I sit behind the steering wheel of my parked Jeep, my passenger seat filled with a bag full of sub sandwiches and cookies, and a tray of coffees I prayed all the way to Rayne’s studio wouldn’t spill, I smile as though I can hear Rayne’s voice in my head. It’s such a simple text exchange, nothing to it, really, but there’s something about the simplicity that calms the nerves splintering in my chest enough that I don’t feel like I’m about to delve headfirst into a freak-out fest.
I’ve held it off for this long. I’m not about to break now, damn it.
So, plucking up the courage to walk into Rayne’s studio for the first time, I gather the goods, climb out of the Jeep, and head toward the front door of the two-story studio that looks both modern and grungy. It looks nice, the ground floor decorated with a wall of windows much like my apartment, only the windows are covered in cool tattoo-design vinyls that create patterns over the glass like they would over skin.
Balancing the drinks carefully, I use my hip to open the door and am immediately greeted by a tatted guy standing behind a reception desk, holding an iPad with a digital pen tucked behind his ear. His hair is dark with blond streaks littered throughout, much like an Oreo, and a light beard decorates his face. All skin visible to the naked eye is covered in swirling colors of ink, just as pretty as Rayne’s, and I wonder vaguely if any of the work on him was done by the Rayne Cloud I know. Studs and hoops are pierced through this guy’s eyebrow, nose, and lip, and it’s only the warm smile he sends me that steals the scary badass look he has going on. Not that I would have been scared of him. I know plenty of people who look just like him, and they’re the sweetest souls I’ve ever met.
Flashing the guy a grin, I wave with the hand that still clutches my cell and greet, “Hey. How’s it going?”
Recognition fills his eyes, and his mouth drops in shock right before his grin returns.
“Pretty damn good. How’s your morning treating you?” he answers, hurrying around the desk and relieving me of the takeout cups that were becoming the bane of my life.
I sigh gratefully. “Much better now. I’m convinced the devil made those stupid cup holders.”
“They’re a bitch, for sure,” the guy snickers, nodding in agreement before he actually realizes there are four takeout cups and a juice box tucked between them all. “Are you thirsty?”
I flash the guy a grin, depositing the bag filled with sandwiches on a nearby coffee table, and shake my head. “I didn’t know what everyone would like, so they’re all lattes. The juice box is for a little lady I know is hanging out here today. I also brought an early lunch.”
Gesturing to the bag, I note, “There’s a little bit of everything in there, and all the packaging is labeled. The cookies are for the kiddo, though, so paws off.”
The guy looks like he’s fighting amusement, but he battles it back enough to ask, “Not that this isn’t great, but what brings Madison Fowler to Blackline with snacks and beverages?”
Just as he asks the question, Rayne walks out from a door situated to the left of the room, followed quickly by a blond-pigtailed four- or five-year-old dressed in black leggings, a band shirt, and combat boots that make me want to cry. She’s actually the cutest little thing I’ve ever seen, and even more so when she comes skidding to a stop as her dark eyes land on me and widen, her little mouth falling open in shock.
I wave at her, and a bashful little smile appears on her mouth right before she tucks herself behind a guy who looks like the male version of her. The guy looks like he just stepped off a runway in his skinny jeans and torn sweater, matching boots on his feet to the kiddo clinging to his leg.
This must be Mikey and Laylah.
“You brought food?” Rayne asks with surprise when his eyes land on me and then the bag of subs on his coffee table.
I point out the takeout cups on the reception desk and declare, “Can’t eat without drinks.”
“That’s what you were plotting?” Rayne snorts, coming over to sit beside me, and I give him a shrug as I battle those pesky butterflies again. Only, this time, they’re worse, because now I know how his lips feel against mine. I know how he tastes, and I know how he feels pressed against me when I sleep.
