Page 27 of Sins and Secrets

My hand is on her shoulder, keeping her steady. Her body heat warms my palm and I get a whiff of her shampoo. “Move slowly.” It sounds more like an order than a suggestion, so I add, “I don't want you to pass out again.”

When her feet gently touch the floor, she scoots to the edge of the table and stands. She’s like a ballerina dancing on stage, graceful and delicate .

“Good girl,” I mutter as I turn my attention to my work station. “We've got about an hour left. Go get some water and a snack.”

Once she's out of ear shot, Jade squeaks, “Oh, my god.”

My receptionist is sporting a shit-eating grin.

“What?”

“You 'good girl'ed her.” Jade bounces on her toes.

Shit.

My cheeks burn and my back breaks out in a sweat. “It's no big deal.” I focus on cleaning my station and not on Jade’s smug little smirk.

“Oh, it’s a very big deal.” She’s humming and dancing around me.

“Do you like working here? Because if you do, you should drop it and go back to the counter.”

She sticks her tongue out at me. “Fine, but I’m picking the playlist.”

“Whatever. Go away.”

By the time Waverly comes back, Amanda Chase’s pop music pumps through the speakers. Waverly lies on the table, resuming her last position. I try to focus on the work, not on her. Do the highlights, make it perfect. Forget about her magnificent ass inches away, or how perfect she feels in my hands, or how she felt years ago. Ignore her blind trust in my artistic ability. Her trust to leave her body in my hands. Fixate on getting the shading and highlights right. Get your act together man. Be a professional.

She lets out a tiny moan. Fuuuck, my plan to be professional goes up in the air just like my… I clear my throat.

“You okay?”

“Yeah. It's the good kind of pain,” she says in her sleepy voice.

Jesus Christ almighty, all my blood rushes south.

No.

Stop.

She's not yours.Ok, think about something else. Anything else. I’m running low on black ink. She had a black bathing suit I took off with my teeth once.

Shit. Think about something else. Like, um, that episode ofFuturamaabout Fry’s dog waiting for him every day for the rest of its little cartoon dog life. But Fry would never come home because he was in the future and the dog was living in the past. The dog wasted his life on a love that could never be returned.

Oh god, now I’m sad and horny. And somehow a show with a talking lobster just became a cautionary tale for my life.

I finish up, wiping the last of the ink away. It might be my best work. They're definitely my best flowers. “Care for a look?”

She lifts her head and twists on the table. “You, sir, are wearing your silly pants today. Of course I want to see it.”

There's a mirror on the wall to make the room seem bigger. I help her to her feet, and when Waverly braces herself on my shoulder, I savor her touch.

God, what if it didn’t come out how she imagined? What if she hates it? I swallow and try to fight against my imposter syndrome. “It’s going to take a few days to heal. Right now it’s red and puffy.” I prep her, manage her expectations.

I hand her a second mirror so she can see it, then I grab my phone and snap a picture. I need to make this moment perfect for her. The pinks and purples pop against the soft white skin on her back that she rarely exposes to the sun.

Her eyes turn glassy as she covers her mouth. Oh, no, this is her crying face.

“Shit, you don't like it,” I whisper. This is my worst fucking nightmare. I can handle an unhappy client, but I can’t have an unhappy Waverly because my work wasn’t what she expected. “I can fix it.”

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