Page 31 of Brash for It (Hellions Ride On #11)

Fourteen

Kristen

The first time I catch my reflection that morning, it’s too late.

I’m at the front desk of the spa, computer already humming, when I lean forward to answer the phone and catch a glimpse of my neck in the shiny black screen. The mark is dark, high, blooming just under the angle of my jaw.

Oh. My. God.

Heat rushes up my face. I tilt my head, tug at my collar, but it’s useless — it’s there, loud and obvious.

And I didn’t even notice when I left the house.

I know I asked for it. We talked about it.

I don’t know how I forgot about it as I readied for the day.

But then again, hot man kissing me senseless had me distracted.

“Knew it,” a voice sings from the hallway.

I snap my head up. It’s Lana. Of course it’s Tessa. She saunters out of one of the treatment rooms with a smirk, auburn bun wobbling, red nails tapping the doorframe.

“Knew what?” I ask, voice higher than I’d like.

She gestures at her own neck with a flourish. “That Kellum finally broke his saint act. He leave you that little love bite?”

My stomach does a weird flip. I want to deny it. I want to say something clever. Instead, I sputter.

“Not your business.”

Her smirk widens. “Sure, Kristen. Sure.” She breezes past me toward the staff lounge. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you, though. He’s addictive. Best you’ll ever have. Just don’t be a fool and expect him to keep you. He never keeps anyone.”

The words sting, sharper than I want to admit. She disappears around the corner, leaving me clutching my collar and burning red.

I want to be angry. I want to tell myself she’s just bitter, that she’s trying to get in my head. But part of me still feels small — like I’ve been caught playing dress-up in someone else’s life.

Before I can spiral, the doorbell chimes. I look up to see a delivery guy carrying a huge glass vase, stems of roses spilling over the top.

“Delivery for Kristen,” he says, reading off a slip.

My heart stutters because the flowers are stunning. “For me?”

He sets them on the desk. “All yours.”

I thank him, fumbling, and as soon as he leaves I tug the little white card out of the arrangement.

Two words, written in Kellum’s rough, heavy hand:

Mine. K

My breath catches. The sting from Lana’s comment evaporates like it never existed. My smile stretches so wide it almost hurts. I set the flowers right on the counter where everyone can see them. The card though, I put it in my pocket, keeping it close.

The rest of the morning, I can’t stop touching the card, running my finger over the ink like it’s proof. A few months ago, I was disposable. Today, I’m his.

And I’ve never had a better day.

I float.

There’s no other word for it. The roses sit like a red sunrise on the counter. The little white card tucked at the perfect angle in my back pocket where I can touch it easily and remember the words.

Mine. –K.

It’s ridiculous how one word can take all the knots in my chest and turn them into fluttering butterflies.

Trina clocks the vase the second she comes out with a stack of fresh linens.

Her eyebrows do a graceful climb. “Oho. Someone finally admitted what the whole street already knew.” She leans in and looks for the card then looks at me over the rim of her glasses.

“You look like someone watered your soul. They from Pretty Boy?”

“Don’t,” I say, trying for blasé and failing utterly. My smile is an ungovernable animal. “It’s just a nice gesture.”

“‘Just nice,’” she mimics, smirking. “Please. That is the kind of ‘nice’ that gets a woman through a thirty-minute hold with the bridal party from hell.” She taps the vase. “Put it on the far end so the acetone doesn’t waft over here to them.”

I slide the arrangement down the counter, guarding the card like a dragon with a single coin. As I straighten, I catch movement and—of course—Lana glides in from the back, her facial done, bun messy and perfect at the same time, nails a weaponized red.

She stops. Looks at the roses. Then at me. Then, pointedly, at my neck.

The heat climbs my cheeks again. I tug the collar of my blouse. “It’s not that obvious,” I lie.

“Mm,” she says, noncommittal. Her gaze flickers softer for a heartbeat. “Happy suits you.”

I’m too surprised at her answer. Lana gives the flowers one last look, then nods in a way that feels like a truce.

“Tell him he owes the front desk a bigger tip jar,” she says, breezing past. “Your phone is going to ring off the hook with women rescheduling so they can ask how you tamed the wildest of them all.”

Trina laughs. “Don’t encourage the chaos.”

“I live for it,” Lana tosses back, and disappears.

I stand there, hand on the vase, heart doing a strange relieved stutter. I was braced for another dig, the way she warned me weeks ago. Instead I got a moment of peace, maybe even happiness for me. The knot I didn’t know I’d been holding loosens another click.

The morning picks up. The phone does, in fact, ring more but by happenstance.

I book a facial for a woman who whispers like she’s telling me a secret about cucumbers.

I move a massage to Friday for a man who apologizes six times for having a back ache pop up.

I sell two gift certificates and explain, three separate times, that a pedicure does not have to include glitter but could if it would heal anyone’s inner child.

That is our current promotion and I’m dreading cleaning up behind them.

Glitter is like the worst thing because it goes everywhere.

Every now and then, a client glances at the roses and then at me.

I watch the little lift in their faces, like maybe the idea of being claimed—in a way that isn’t possession but promise—still means something in a world that keeps telling us to ask less, expect less, be less.

I’m not less today. I’m enough to fill this whole room.

Between appointments, Trina leans on the counter and drops her voice. “So. How’s the boat, Captain?” I shared with her what Kellum has said. This is what having a real girlfriend is like and I’m thankful for her.

I duck my head, grin at the card. “Steady.”

“And the first mate?”

I bite my lip, but the happiness comes out anyway, bright and uncontainable. “He’s a keeper.”

She deadpans. “I can see that.”

Trina’s smile goes small and warm. “Look at you.”

I don’t tell her about last night. I don’t need to. The evidence is on my neck and in the curve of my mouth turning to a smile just at the mention of him. Some things don’t need a whole paragraph. They just need a woman standing upright with her shoulders back, head high.

Around noon, I catch myself touching the hickey again, fingertips grazing the tender edge.

For a second, Lana’s voice from earlier flutters up, warning painted as wisdom.

Best you’ll ever have. Don’t expect him to keep you.

The old me would’ve swallowed that whole, called it realism, braced for the fall.

The new me looks at the roses instead. Two words.

No performance. No grandstanding. No claim on anything but responsibility.

Mine. Not because I bought you , not because I own you , not because I said so .

Because we both said so. Because last night, when the water steamed and my heartbeat climbed into my mouth, he gave me an exit and I made a choice to remain steady with him.

The best part is, I chose it in daylight again this morning. And I’ll keep choosing him, us, this. The mark on my neck is not a secret shame. It’s a signature I signed first.

By two o’clock, I’ve had three separate women ask, with conspiratorial winks, whether the roses are “for something special.” I reply each time, “For a good day.” It feels right.

At three-thirty, a woman in a blue sundress comes in for a mani and pedi.

She’s a regular who comes weekly for a manicure and pedicure.

She does the basic service because every week she’s going to want a different color and won’t wait to make it worth it for a set of acrylics or to do gel.

She looks at the roses, and sighs dramatically.

“I told my husband if he ever sends me flowers at work, he has to include cash for the tip jar because all my coworkers will have to listen to me talk about it.”

I laugh. “You’re not wrong.”

She leans in because she’s seen us. “Tell me it’s the biker.”

“It’s the biker.”

She claps her hands once, delighted. “I knew it! My cousin used to date a Hellion. They’re a mess, but they are very hmm.” She searches for a word, settles on, “intense.”

I blink. It hits in that place that’s still learning a new language. Intense. Yes. He is.

By the time closing comes, I am ready to be home with my man.

Absently, I think about Brian and the kind of “big” that used to rule my days—cars, houses, fancy trips, and his control.

Then I look at the roses and think about Kellum and the kind of big that matters now: one word in thick handwriting, a hand on my hip at the kitchen counter, a camera over a back door, the long way home on a bike because I asked for wind.

Trina waits until I’m counting out the last twenties to lean in and whisper, “You know you have a hickey, right?”

I choke on a laugh. “Apparently the whole county knows.”

“Good.” She winks. “Let them talk.”

When five hits, I text Kellum a picture of the flowers with a caption that just says you’re trouble of the best kind.

He sends back a period and a heart and then, be there in ten.

My face does that thing again where it tries to split in half with happiness. I’m about to write take your time just to feel like contact with him again when the bell over the door rings, and in he walks, early.

Every head in the room swivels, not subtle. He doesn’t change his position. He just looks at me, looks at the roses, and the corner of his mouth lifts a fraction like he’s pleased with his own work in the world.

“Hi,” I greet, too bright.

“Hey,” he replies, low.