Page 72 of Ink Deep Devotion

“Fine, answer my other question.”

She grabs a rag to dry her hands.“You have a lot of questions.”

“I came here just seeking one,”

She crosses her arms and leans against the counter.“And what is that?”

“What’s your name?”

Her smile is unhurried as she shakes her head.“You can’t have my name, Damian.”

“Why not?” I look at her apron; why doesn’t she have a name tag?

“Because then you’ll want more from me and,” her shoulders inch up to her ears before they fall,“I have nothing to give. I work here 6 days a week, go to school at night, and I’m still broke. I have no time for boys.”

“What about men?” I correct her with a sly smirk.

She snorts a giggle,“Men are even more dangerous.”

I lean on the counter, rubbing my lips together, feeling the cream she put on. I want to help her in every way, but I know that would insult someone with her pride.

What the fuck do I do?

Pushing off the counter, she reaches for a plate beside the cake stand near the coffee machine.

“What happened to your lip?”

“I got into a fight.”

She grabs a cookie from the food section and then slides the plate to me.“You shouldn’t feed strays. They will keep coming back.” I warn her.

“Don’t I know.” She murmurs under her breath.

Through hooded eyes, she looks my way.“And something tells me you’re not a stray. You’re not lost, Damian. You knew precisely what you wanted when you walked through that door.”

The anticipation in the bookstore grows so dense with desire I’m sure the pages of the books will wilt under the humidity our bodies are emitting.

It feels like she is daring me to make a move.

If I do, everything will change— it might have already.

I should apologize for that, but how do you say sorry for something that makes your heart feel whole again?

She nudges the plate closer to me.“Eat.”

A cookie sits on the plate. It’s another sweet gesture, but unlike the first aid kit, I can’t accept this.

I eye it with hatred.“I forgot my wallet.”

“It’s on the house.” She deadpans.

I glance up at her.

“And before you get all googly-eyed, we have to throw out the food at the end of the day, so this isn’t me doing something sweet,” she adds, but her voice is so sugary that I know it’s a lie.

“I…ugh,” I can’t eat that cookie because I’ll get sick; I’m already fighting the memories plaguing my mind.

“Don’t tell me you’re watching your weight and can’t sacrifice one cookie.” She pries.

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