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  “If you’d like to do the honors and spread the batter in the pan?” I carefully hand him the saucepan and spoon. “Around half an hour or so.”

  “Who gets to lick the spoon?”

  “Knock yourself out.”

  There’s a childlike gleam in his eyes. “You’re too kind.”

  “Leif, I loved those books when I was a teenager,” I say, a weird kind of warmth forming in my chest area. “Watched the films so many times. Listening to you reading them would have been like revisiting old friends.”

  His smile is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever beheld. It makes me feel warm inside. “Good,” he says. “I’m glad.”

  There are four people waiting at the front desk and Ed is on the phone when I arrive at the tattoo parlor the next day. A distinct vibe of chaos is in the air, the place is so busy. On one of the massage-type tables, a lady waits with her calves exposed for the inking.

  Leif rushes to the front from out back, a tablet in his hand. “He’s got a few spots open in three or four weeks’ time,” he says to a young man standing at the front desk.

  I take a seat on the velvet chaise and wait with the container of brownies on my lap.

  The young man hems and haws over what day to pick. Asking twice if Leif is positive there’s nothing sooner. It seems weird to me that someone would be in such a hurry to do something permanent to their body. Someone needs to tell the dude that patience is a virtue.

  In the end, Leif says with a strained smile, “You can go somewhere else if you’re in a rush, man. That’s all Ed’s got available in the next month. What’ll it be?”

  There’s no sign of Tessa today. Just Ed and Leif. And Leif left the apartment in such a rush he forgot to take the brownies to share at work. Since my therapy session got cancelled this morning, I figured I’d take a walk and deliver them. Only doing this, stopping by his work this way, feels a little like pretending to be his significant other. Like when I used to drop things off for Ryan now and then. But sharing a place with Leif is temporary. This is a transitional time. And it wouldn’t make sense to forget that and get carried away. To get dependent on him, or the idea of him, somehow. I would be fine on my own. That’s the truth of the matter.

  Meanwhile, thinking about the divorce works spectacularly well as a mental cold shower for when my thoughts run wild. Ryan tried to fight me over some potted plants I alone have kept alive over the past couple of years. He did not win. The idiot.

  In front of me, the phone keeps ringing and the people keep coming and the two of them are obviously slammed. Waiting customers are given a personal information and medical form to fill out. Questions are asked and books full of examples of tattoos are looked through.

  “Hey,” Leif says eventually, joining me on the chaise after things have calmed a little. “You brought the brownies. Thank you!”

  “You’re welcome.”

  He opens the container to take a peek inside. “Awesome. Thanks for keeping me company last night. But you don’t have to do that every night, you know?”

  “You have trouble sleeping every night?”

  In lieu of a response, he draws me closer and kisses my forehead. He probably means it in a friendship-type way, but talk about swoon. My knees go weak. On the inside, I have turned to goo. Also, my face is warm where he kissed me. I hope I’m not blushing. Only it seemed more sincere than his usual flirty wink. A more heartfelt showing of real-life actual affection. Now I’m just overthinking it. Not good. This infatuation needs to die a quiet death before I start putting pictures of him up on the back of my bedroom door. Carving our initials into some poor innocent tree or some other such nonsense.

  The drill-type noise of Ed’s tattoo gun now accompanies the music. It’s Halsey, I think. Another song I don’t know that probably came out while I was in a coma.

  “Still no receptionist?” I ask.

  “Eh. Latest apprentice gave up and went back to art school.” He scratches his chin. “We’ll find someone eventually.”

  “Is it always this busy first thing?”

  “Tends to be, yeah.”

  “My therapy got cancelled this morning. I can stay for a few hours and help out.”

  He pauses. “Anna, you don’t have to—”

  “I know I don’t have to. I want to.”

  “Well, I’m not going to say no.” He stands, heading over to the counter. “Let me give you a quick rundown.”

  And that’s how I start doing a couple of hours at Larsen and Sons Tattoo Parlor a few days a week. Ed is beyond grateful and Leif and Tessa are happy to have me around. Delighted to have some time during the day where they don’t have to juggle the phone. It’s a big change from my work at the inn. There, I was the woman in the office out back keeping everything running behind the scenes. But here I’m front and center. It’s a steep learning curve and I ask a lot of questions, but everyone’s patient with me and the extra bit of income is nice. So is feeling useful again.

  In no time at all I can give the appropriate responses to all the basic questions, such as do tattoos hurt? Depends on the placement and your own pain tolerance. How much does it cost? Each tattoo artist has a different hourly rate and if you’re inclined to haggle, then please recall that you’ll be wearing this piece of art for the rest of your life. Don’t make me smack some sense and respect into you. Are they safe? We follow all recommended safety precautions, but please make sure you’re honest with regards to any medical conditions. What should I get? I can’t answer this question for you. Where should I get it? I don’t want to answer this question for you.

  No one minds me being somewhat salty in response to the last one. Or if they do, they keep it to themselves. Leif raised his brows, but got on with his work with a smile. And this is the kind of reaction I can handle.

  I am the no-nonsense woman on the front desk and I like it. I like it a lot. I like the control, and I like getting dressed and going somewhere that has nothing to do with the accident or its aftereffects. I like my new life.

  “What’s with his face?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Just look at him,” says Leif, hand waving vaguely at the screen.

  Yeah. He’s still not talking sense. So in response, I shove some popcorn in my mouth. Popcorn is never not a good idea.

  It’s around midnight and we’re watching a movie. The movie. Twilight. Blueberry muffins that we made earlier are cooking in the oven and all is right and good. Leif’s baking skills are improving with the almost nightly practice he’s had over the last week. Clem and Ed have declared me the best neighbor ever on account of all the delicious goodies they’re now getting so my ass doesn’t get too out of control. Cooking seems to relax Leif when he gets all wound up and over-awake at night, and I couldn’t say no to the possibility of a cookie if my life depended on it. Therefore, we keep on baking.

  “Good soundtrack,” says Leif, holding the bowl of popped goodness closer to me. He’s a nice man. “But honest to God, Edward looks low-key tortured all the time.”

  “You have to understand that her blood smells like the best food ever to him. She’s the ultimate temptation and he’s like a vegan vampire or whatever.”

  “What? She smells like tacos?”

  “Exactly. Bella’s blood is the best tacos you’ve ever had in your life.”

  “Huh.” He contemplates this. “I had some really great fish tacos this one time in Mexico when I was twenty-two. They were amazing. Life altering, really. Served with just the right amount of lime juice.”

  “That’s it then. Bella’s blood smells like the fish tacos from your vacation in Mexico when you were twenty-two,” I explain. “And Edward is mad keen on tacos with just the right amount of lime juice and he’s desperate to sample, but he can’t. Because if he starts, he might not stop.”

  “Got it. Is that generally considered heroic, wanting to eat the heroine?”

  “Not this kind of eating, no.”

  We both look at each other an
d start giggling like idiots.

  Then he stops. “Them being teenagers is a concern, however.”

  “Well, yeah, but his character is over a hundred years old.”

  “Pervert.”

  “It is one hell of an age gap, I’ll give you that. I was a teenager when I first started watching this,” I say. “But a lot of adults are into YA. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. They’re good stories. No sexy times actually happen until she’s over eighteen in the second-to-last movie, so . . .”

  “You’re going to make me watch all of these movies, aren’t you?” he asks, not sounding particularly worried about the prospect.

  “Yes.” It’s the simple truth.

  He just nods.

  And then it happens. The sound of the vehicle skidding across the road makes some animal forgotten part of my brain react. Fight-or-flight coming to the fore. My heart hammers inside my chest. The sight of the vehicle careening toward her . . . shit. I jerk back hard in my seat as on screen, Edward saves Bella from being crushed by a moving vehicle. It hadn’t even occurred to me. That this sort of thing would come up now and then and freak me the hell out. Dammit.

  “You okay?” he asks, gaze concerned.

  Every muscle in me from top to toe is drawn tight and I’ve broken out in a cold sweat. “Yeah. I just . . . I forgot about that bit. But it’s fine. I’m fine.”

  “We can change movies if you want.”

  “No. It’s all right. Wait. Are you okay?” After all, I’m not the only one with issues relating to motor vehicle accidents. “Do you want to turn it off?”

  He shrugs. “I’m fine.”

  That’s it. That’s all he gives me. But somehow, I don’t quite believe him. There’s a certain tension to him too. Unless he’s feeding off of my angst. Fuck, I wish I had a psychology degree around about now.

  “Are you sure?” I ask.

  “Yep.”

  “Okay.” I settle back, taking nice, deep even breaths. What am I going to do? Freak out every time there’s a car crash on TV? Nope. I will not let my fears rule me. Nor can I force Leif into confronting whatever may or may not be hiding inside his head. That’s his trauma to process in his own time.

  On screen, Bella is surrounded by her concerned friends before being examined by a doctor. The bland walls and hospital beds and everything are an immediate downer.

  “Yuck,” I say. “If I never see the inside of a hospital again I’ll die happy.”

  He sighs and settles back into the couch without a word. More proof that the screechy vehicle sounds got on his nerves too. Leif is a chatterer. He always has something to say. Which makes me wonder if the violence upsets him also. Seeing his sister-in-law left bleeding out on the ground after a knife attack would have to stick inside your head. The sight of so much blood and pain must linger in the worst way possible. And it happened pretty much right outside our front door.

  It didn’t even occur to me when I was choosing the movie to beware of blood and violence. I’m a lousy friend. Leif has been through a crazy amount in the last couple of years. I’m impressed he’s managed to hold himself together as well as he has.

  “Do you think having your dad as the local sheriff would mean you were more or less inclined to get into mischief?” he asks.

  “I don’t know. Depends on how deep your need to rebel runs, I guess,” I say. “We really can put on something else if you’d prefer.”

  “Nuh.”

  Okay. “Oh, they’re having their first fight slash mild disagreement. How dramatic.”

  “Much tension.”

  “Such romance.”

  And because I’m watching him out of the corner of my eye, I catch his frown a minute or two later. “Is it really considered romantic to break into a girl’s room and stand in the corner watching her sleep?”

  “Let’s remember that this is a fantasy,” I say. “We know that she’s fundamentally safe with Edward because he’s the hero. We can trust him to always do the right thing with her. Therefore we can imagine being wanted in that all-consuming way to such a thrilling degree by a hot dude while disregarding any and all real-life stalkers-breaking-and-entering concerns.”

  A grunt from him.

  I curl my feet up underneath me. So I spent the better part of my teenage years overthinking Twilight. It made me happy.

  “You once commented that you thought I was hot,” he says.

  “Did I?”

  “Am I to therefore believe that you would find it thrilling for me to watch you sleep?”

  “I’m pretty sure you have better things to do than watch me sleep.” My heart did not start beating faster at his words. It’s just still riled up over the car thing. “Like seeing to your belly-button lint issue.”

  With a frown, he tugs up his T-shirt. Oh good God, what have I done? He sits there beside me, showing off his amazing body like it’s nothing. And of course I cannot look away. I’m so weak and wanton these days. It’s dreadful.

  “My belly button is perfectly clean.” He sniffs with disdain. “Where are you getting your information from, lady?”

  “It was a joke. Stop it.” I tug on his shirt with a scowl. “Cover yourself.”

  “Why? What’s wrong with my body?” He smirks. Because he knows damn well he’s perfection. The asshole. I hate him and I keep having this insane urge to have sex with him, but we’re really just friends. Just. Friends.

  For so many reasons.

  “Nothing,” I say. “I made a joke and you took it too far.”

  “Did not.”

  “Did too,” I say, because mature competent adult.

  “Did not.”

  “I am rising above your petty and juvenile behavior,” I say, then seize control of the bowl of popcorn. Maybe if I keep my mouth full I’ll refrain from saying anything stupid ever again, or at least for a little while. A girl can dream. But first, “House rule number one. People in central areas of the residence must be fully dressed at all times.”

  “But what if I’m exercising and I get hot so I have to take my shirt off and inadvertently show some skin?”

  “I don’t see how that would be inadvertent.”

  “Gleaming, sweaty skin,” he drawls. “I really do get overheated while exercising. Please consider my request.”

  I think it over and sigh. He sort of has a point regarding getting hot while exercising. But he’s also sort of being the Lord of Mixed Signals.

  And then he opens his mouth and says, “It’s not like you haven’t seen it all before anyway.”

  “What? What are you talking about?” I ask. “I haven’t seen it all.”

  “The other night you saw me without my shirt.”

  “But that’s not it all.”

  He lifts one shoulder. “Eh.”

  I sigh. The man knows nothing.

  “The upper body is usually the most interesting aesthetic part on most people,” he says. “Tattooing and other various activities has taught me that.”

  I look to heaven. No help is forthcoming. “Let me guess, you’re a breast man? That’s where this idiocy is coming from.”

  “Breasts are good.”

  “So are thighs and asses and junk.”

  The corner of his lip quirks in amusement like he’s gotten me to say a dirty word. Inside the heart of every man is a twelve-year-old boy. One who wants to talk smut and make fart jokes. And I’m reasonably certain that at least this time I didn’t start the sex talk. At least, not intentionally. Also he’s giving me a strange, speculative sort of look.

  “What?” I ask.

  “I was just thinking.”

  God help me. “What?”

  “You probably don’t want to hear it.”

  “Okay.” This whole line of discussion feels beyond dangerous. “Shut up and watch the movie then.”

  He holds his peace for all of approximately half a second. “I was just going to say that if you—”

  “No,” I say, adamant. “You’re right, I don’t want to
hear it. Because whatever comes out of your mouth next is guaranteed to make things even more awkward.”

  “Yeah, but awkward is kind of what we do best.” He tilts his head, watching me out of the corner of his eye. “Think about it, young Anna. We’re always having strange little overly honest conversations. It’s refreshing. People clutter their talking up with so much nonsense these days. The cool thing to say. The smart thing to say. The polite thing to say. But never the honest and open thing. The thing that’s really on their mind. Why is that?”

  “Probably because they don’t want to get hurt or hurt other people. They don’t want to look foolish or leave themselves open to being misconstrued,” I say. “I don’t know. Communication is tricky. There’s lots of ways it can go wrong.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Hmm, what?”

  “I think there’s a level of trust and understanding here between us that’s beautiful, is all.”

  I have nothing. He’s right and it is beautiful. Our irreverent conversations far and away eclipse the conversations Ryan and I used to have. Maybe it’s a passing thing. Maybe Leif and I will drift apart. But right here, right now is something special. Though I’m still not going to tell him everything. There are plenty of thoughts that I don’t need to share. All the same, I can’t keep the happy off my face.

  “Don’t you think?” he asks.

  “Yes. I do.”

  And he just smiles.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  There’s a sort of forced intimacy that comes with sharing a space with someone. For instance, Leif has a habit of walking from the bathroom to his bedroom post shower clad in only a towel. Then there’s the wandering in, dripping sweat and half naked, fresh from a run with Ed. Not to forget how rumpled and lost he looks first thing in the morning. I’ve taken to shoving a cup of coffee into his hand and forgoing all conversation for the first half an hour or until his brain has come online. It’s best for everyone.

  None of this is helpful for my crush on him. But I can handle it. This crush is a bounce. It’s a distraction from everything happening in my life. It’s not serious. And I am not protesting too much. I’m just keeping things straight inside my head. Sometimes you need to have a stern talk to yourself. I seem to be doing this on an hourly basis. Let’s not question why.