Page 78 of Pink Ink

I sigh, shaking my head. “I guess I really want to make a film centered around an idiom that can be taken both figuratively and literally. That’s the only idea I’ve got for the next project, and I’m coming up empty on all accounts—especially since I want to keep basing them off the Shadow’s kills.”

The pregnant pause fills me with hope, then extinguishes it in an instant. I’ve still got nothing, and I don’t have long until the project is due.

“Do you want solutions or to vent?”

I laugh humorlessly. “Unless you can tell the Shadow to go on a creative murder spree, there’s nothing you can do.”

“That can be arranged.” He says it like a promise.

The intensity of his gaze skyrockets to the point that it’s uncomfortable.

“Right.” I shift my weight and force a chuckle, focusing my attention back on the painting to avoid meeting his stare. Clearing my throat, I add,“While you’re at it, tell him to leave me a bag of Cheetos and a pair of chopsticks so I can snack dust-free while looking around.”

“Noted.”

No humor, no eye roll. “A drink as well?” he asks.

The tension lifts off my shoulders. It doesn’t sound like a joke, but it clearly is. “Some lemon iced tea, please. That way I can get caffeine with a side of sugar.”

He’s still looking at me like he’s preparing a life-changing grocery list.

Time to wrap this up. I can’t deal with this tension.

I make a show of checking my phone. “It’s getting late.” Not completely a lie. It’s almost four o’clock. By the time I get back to his office to get my camera for the wedding I’m getting paid to film tomorrow, then take the subway home, it’ll be close to six, and I’m already feeling quite snackish.

“Do you have plans that I’m not aware of?” His eyes narrow.

“Yeah, your brother—”

“I suggest you don’t finish that sentence.”

My grin widens, and I shrug. “I’ll leave it to Spencer to tell you, then.”

I haven’t spoken to the guy since our first interaction. Seeing Maddox drop the weirdness and get all smoldery and angry is a nice ego boost.

I’m not sure what’s going on with him. Us. This. It seems too dangerous. I should be running in the opposite direction, not entertaining it. But I like it too much to keep hiding like I’ve been doing over the past week. All I could think about was how what I wanted—all I’ve dreamed of—was a repeat of that day, and to see how far we can take it.

He follows behind me, brooding and radiating enough vicious energy to kill the surrounding plants. I can practically hear his murderous thoughts, and I’ll admit, it makes a girl feel special.

And confused.

Very, very confused.

REYNA

Maddox speeds up in front of me to hold the door open and grips my satchel when I try to take it off him. He follows the whole gentlemanly act with a glare when I don’t give him a chance to help me into the cab.

Stuck in rush hour, our conversation drifts from art and film to stories about my mom—his full of the wacky stuff she’d say at shows, mine of everything else.

“You haven’t mentioned your father,” Maddox observes.

“There’s not much to say.”

He raises an inquisitive brow.

Leaning my head back, I gaze out the front window. “I used to get a single day out of the year to see him—and he’d spend half of that day playing catch-up with Mom. He usually didn’t even stay the night. There was the odd occasion that he stayed, like, two or three days, but I could count on one hand how many times that happened. I mean, he called randomly a couple of times, but that guy wasnota talker.”

That catches his attention. “Used to?”