Page 59 of Yours Truly

Lucy appears, sliding the plastic bag onto the counter, reciting my order. “Two short stacks, two eggs, four slices of bacon and two fruits, to go.”

I nod and leave a wad of cash on the counter, far more than the total. “Thanks, Lucy.”

Deuce grins. “You learned her name.”

I pop my knuckles. “Yes, I did.”

He hooks a finger in the bag. “Speaking of Ivy–”

“How’d you know this isn’t all for me?”

He glances at Hudson, who is still engrossed in his phone conversation, then looks back my way. “Is it?”

I shake my head. “No. I’m bringing breakfast to Ivy at work.”

He nods. “About Ivy.”

My skin grows hot, and the weight of the cage between my thighs causes me to shift nervously on the barstool. I pull my hair off my neck and wrap an elastic around it. “What’s up?”

“I think she earned some skin for saving your ass.” At that precise moment, Hudson ends his call, writing furiously on the back of some receipt he dug out of his wallet.

I cock a brow. “Skin?”

Deuce rolls his eyes. “Jesus, what did you do last night that you forgot the night before?” He shakes his head. “Ink. Typical rite of passage is inking herself at the end of her apprenticeship, but she’s already inked herself plenty so… I was thinking it should be you she inks.”

“Yeah,” I say, holding back the smirk that threatens to peek through my curved-down lips as I picture Ivy straddling me, her little gloved hands working as she leaves her mark on me permanently.

Though I know she’s already done that.

“She did great yesterday. And I think we both know she’s got the experience to start her own client list.” He sips his coffee and my pulse picks up, a sick foreboding edging in. “Thought we could wrap up her apprenticeship this week, let her get started on her own. Out of your hair.”

Anger burns in my toes, rapidly gaining momentum as it tears through me, making my neck flush and my cheeks simmer. “One good tattoo doesn’t mean she’s ready to work on her own,” I grumble, eyeing her coffee cup and the slow trickle of steam drifting from the mouth hole. If she’s on her own, if she doesn’t need me… she may not want me.

“She’s not good enough to ink on her own full time,” I finish, snatching the plastic bag of food off the counter. The truth is? She’s beyond ready and more than good enough. It’s me that isn’t. I can’t lose her before I have her, and for whatever fucked-up reason, that’s what this feels like. I leave my coffee on the counter and grab hers, tip my head at Deuce and Hudson, and turn to leave.

I have a hot breakfast for my girl, and I want to take it to her, not hear about how she ought to do her own thing.

Only, when I turn, I find Ivy standing behind me, her phone in her hand. Her hair is down and straight, the onyx shining in the morning light pouring in through the door. She’s wearing her boots, the handle of her knife peeking out, making my caged cock throb. In leggings and an oversized hoodie with a leather vest over the top, she looks like a goddamn wet dream. Like every fantasy I’ve ever had come to life.

Like my future wife.

From my pocket, my phone dings. I pull it out and look at it.

Ivy

Look behind you dummy.

I blink at her, wind knocked from my chest as I notice her eyes.

They’re misty and damp.

“Not good enough?” she questions hoarsely, her head bobbing. I hate that her eyes fall to my boots, and that she stares at them for a long moment before her gaze lifts to mine again.

A tear slips down her cheek, through her thick lashes. “I’m glad we still have time to work together,” she finally says, taking a few steps backward, which feels greatly metaphorical.

“Ivy,” I call, reaching out, the bag of food falling to the floor with a crash. “Ivy, wait.”

But she’s gone before I can do anything, and I only have myself to blame.

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