Make Me Sin (3 page)

In the short time I’ve known him, A.J. Edwards has managed to make me lose my cool more than I’ve lost my cool over the course of my entire life. I’m known for my even temper, for being able to get along with most anyone, for manners and ladylike ways. I never even curse.

Well, hardly ever; I’ve called A.J. a few choice names.

It’s partly the way I was raised, but it’s also just my nature. I’m a naturally happy person. I’m easygoing. I was voted Most Popular my senior year of high school, for God’s sake! I’m likeable! I’m nice!

You’re a stuck-up, frigid rich girl who wouldn’t know a dick if it hit her in the face.

I have to stand at the mirror and breathe deeply for several minutes before I finally begin to calm down. Once I do, I realize the fury isn’t the worst of what I’m feeling.

The
hurt
is the worst. For reasons unknown, A.J. hates my guts. It hurts me more than I’d like to admit.

I meet my eyes in the mirror one last time, and shake my head. “Suck it up, Chloe,” I say to my reflection. “Not everyone has to like you. Let it go.”

For not the first time, I resolve to move on from the mystery of why this stranger seems to wish me dead. Even if I knew the reason, I know I couldn’t change his mind. He’s not the kind of man who listens to what he doesn’t want to hear.

When I finally leave the bedroom, I find Eric sprawled on the couch in the living room with the television tuned to a football game. His cell phone is gripped in one hand, the remote control in the other.

He’s snoring gently, sound asleep.

I don’t wake him. By the time the pizza arrives, Eric’s snoring has reached chainsaw levels. I cover him with a blanket, pay the delivery guy, sit down at my kitchen table alone, and eat a slice of lukewarm pizza—picking off the pepperoni, because Eric forgot again that I don’t eat meat—all the while trying not to be driven insane by the little voice inside my head that’s whispering one thing over and over.

A.J.

A.J.

A.J.

I abandon the half-eaten piece of pizza on the table, turn off all the lights, and go to bed, where I lay staring at the ceiling in the dark.

I should be thinking about the future, about what an incredible opportunity Kat and Nico have given me; how if their wedding flowers are admired, my life will change for the better in all the ways I’ve dreamed; or even about why Eric smelled like beer when he arrived, when he said he’d just gotten off work.

But I don’t think about any of that. I think about cold amber eyes and messy gold hair and a stare that burns right through me, until finally, mercifully, sleep overtakes me and I pass out.

Even in my dreams, I can’t escape him.

I
t’s Sunday afternoon at four o’clock. I’m on the phone with a customer, taking an order for a funeral spray, when I’m grabbed from behind and pulled against a solid chest.

“
Hello
, beautiful,” a cultured voice purrs in my ear. “Come here often?”

I spin around. When I see who it is, I scream in delight. “Jamie! You’re here!” I throw my arms around my brother’s shoulders.

He laughs, squeezing me. “I’m here, little bug. Your drab, colorless existence will commence being extremely fabulous right about
now
.” He gives me another squeeze for emphasis, then pulls back to examine me at arms’ length. He grows instantly sober. “Dear God. You’re even prettier than the last time I saw you. Are you in love?”

One of the many reasons I adore my older brother: he gives compliments like no one’s business.

“What are you doing here? Did you just get in? I thought we’d see you later at the ’rents for dinner!”

He winks at me. I see exactly why every gay man in a fifty-mile radius has just achieved an erection, even if they don’t know why. My brother is gorgeous, if I do say so myself. He’s wearing a dove-gray suit, no tie, white dress shirt open at the collar. His dark hair is perfect, as are his teeth, his skin, and every accessory, right down to the silk pocket square peeking out of his jacket. He’s tall and slender like a model, and has the cheekbones of a model, too, but with none of a model’s self-consciousness. He’s completely at ease in his own skin, in spite of growing up with parents who refuse to acknowledge he’s gay.

I still haven’t forgiven them for that. Miraculously, it doesn’t bother James a bit. He accepts people’s shortcomings without judgment, even when they’re viciously judging him themselves.

He smiles warmly at me, hazel eyes crinkling around the corners. “I had to see how the infamous ‘bespoke boutique’ was doing.
Couldn’t miss an opportunity to rub your success in Mommy Dearest’s
face, now, could I?”

I roll my eyes. “As if Mommy Dearest would care.”

He purses his lips and shrugs. “Mmm. She might care. If you ever land the cover of
Vanity Fair
, that is. Until then, if she can’t brag about it to her social set, it’s simply not worth the effort. Don’t take it personally, bug, she can’t help herself. Her mother is British aristocracy. If that wouldn’t ruin you, I don’t know what would.”

We share wry smiles, then a tinny squawking distracts me. I realize I’ve still got my customer on the line. I hold a finger in the air for Jamie and whip the phone to my ear. “Mr. Thornton! I’m so sorry, please excuse me.” I continue with the order as I watch from the corner of my eye as James begins politely poking his nose into my business.

He strolls nonchalantly around the counter, lifting a notepad here, opening a file folder there, quickly and efficiently assessing everything within sight. I see him mentally catalogue the entire operation in a glance, nodding in satisfaction every so often. He frowns briefly at the state of disarray around the cash register, where the young son of my last customer tampered with a display of enclosure cards. Jamie quickly and silently straightens the display, leaving it looking better than it had before.

He’s always been like this. Inquisitive. Precise. Unobtrusively infusing elegance into everything he touches. I can’t believe some lucky guy hasn’t put a ring on his finger yet.

Just as I finish the call with Mr. Thornton, Jamie falls still. His lips part. His eyes widen. He stares in fascination at something behind me, looking over my shoulder as if a unicorn has just pranced into the room.

I glance in the direction he’s looking, expecting to see some hot young underwear model or something of the sort. Oh, how wrong I am.

A.J. Edwards stands in front of my counter, as broad and imposing as Thor. Today he’s wearing faded jeans that are stuffed into combat boots with no laces, a battered brown leather bomber jacket, and a pair of aviators that obscure his eyes. His long hair is tied into a sloppy knot at the nape of his neck. He’s unshaven, as usual. He gives my brother a friendly chin jerk in acknowledgment. “Hey.”

Jamie makes a faint noise, not quite a hello. I can tell he wants to fan himself.

A.J. turns his attention to me. I can’t see his eyes because of the aviators, but I imagine I feel their intensity penetrating through. With slightly less acidity than he normally addresses me with, he says, “I need to place an order.”

My central nervous system decides it’s a circus. Acrobats catapult through my intestines. Clowns on pogo sticks bounce around in my brain. A chimpanzee twirls a baton and rides a unicycle back and forth inside my heart, and a strongman tightens a pair of bulging biceps around my throat, squeezing off all my air. I am paralyzed by the clamor of activity, and stare stupidly at A.J. as if he has just arrived from outer space.

He removes the sunglasses. He stares at me. He doesn’t smile.

Jamie nudges me with his elbow, and I snap out of my stupor. “You can order online,” I blurt, without an ounce of warmth. Jamie shoots me a surprised glance. I’m never this grouchy to people, but he doesn’t know the history between me and the grizzly bear standing on the other side of my counter.

A.J. says, “Don’t have a computer.”

I take that in, wondering if he doesn’t know how to use a computer, or if he’s just one of those antisocial people who hates technology. I decide on the latter. “You can also call to place an order. You didn’t have to come in.”

“Don’t have a phone.”

It takes me longer to process that. “What kind of person doesn’t have a computer or a phone?”

A.J. moistens his lips. He runs a hand over his unruly hair. Beside me, Jamie watches with unabashed fascination. Though I hate to admit it, I can’t say I blame him. The simple gestures somehow look incredibly erotic.

“You going to help me out with the flowers, or not?” A.J.’s voice is gruff now. His strange new patience with me has already grown thin.

My ears go hot with anger. My voice, though quiet, drips with contempt. “There are plenty of other flower shops in this town with owners you don’t despise. Why don’t you go try one of them?”

That brings a hint of a smile to his mouth, which promptly fades, as if his lips aren’t used to curving in any direction but down. “Nico said your shop is the best. I need the best.” He shrugs, the picture of nonchalance. “I can put up with some aggravation in order to get it.”

My eyes bug out. Aggravation? I’m aggravating? Of all the
nerve
—

“Of
course
we can help you! Let me just get an order form, sir, and I’ll take care of everything.”

My lead designer, Trina, sidles up beside me, commandeering the discussion she can see has just gone off the rails. I was aware of her watching the back-and-forth from her position to my right, where she’s been processing bunches of roses, but now she’s decided I can’t be trusted to deal with A.J. any longer. She’s taken the matter out of my hands before I lose my temper completely.

If I had to guess how she knew I was about to lose it, I’d say my red face, stiff back, and clenched fists are all pretty solid indicators.

I turn and stomp away from the counter. I banish myself to the back room, which is conveniently out of sight of A.J. and his mocking eyes. Jamie is right on my heels.

“I can’t decide which is more interesting,” he drawls, taking a seat across from me at the round table where I usually eat my lunch. He leans back and crosses his legs. “Big Daddy with the hottest man bun since Jared Leto, or your
reaction
to him. What’s that all about, bug?”

“You have no idea what a
jerk
that guy is.” I try to keep my voice low so it doesn’t carry to the front of the shop. “He always treats me like I’m a piece of garbage that’s stuck to the bottom of his shoe.” I make a noise of frustration. “I can’t stand him!”

Jamie looks at me closely for what seems like a long time. “Hmm.”

“Seriously, this is the nicest he’s
ever
been to me. He was almost civil. I’ve met him, like, half a dozen times before, and he hated me on sight. He once barked at me for being a guest in someone else’s house, like
I
did something wrong by being invited! And I won’t even tell you the names he’s called me.”

Instantly, Jamie’s in protective-big-brother mode. He sits forward, his normally smiling face growing dark. “He’s called you
names
?”

“Yes!”

Jamie’s expression is a little scary. He might not be the burliest guy around, but he’s tall, and not afraid of anything. “Like what?”

“He calls me
Princess
. And not in a nice way. It’s like he’s really calling me a snob!”

He waits for more. I don’t think I’ve impressed him so far.

“And he said I was a stuck-up, frigid rich girl!”

Again, he waits silently for me to provide more examples.

“Who wears grandma panties!”

His lips twitch. Is he trying not to smile? I begin to feel desperate.

“Who wouldn’t know a dick if it hit her in the face!”

Unfortunately, I shout this last sentence. There’s a sudden silence from the front, where Trina has been taking A.J.’s order. I prop my elbows on the table, and drop my face into my hands.

“I can see why you’re so upset,” says Jamie. “That
is
dire.”

“Shut up.”

“I mean, a princess who doesn’t know a dick if it hits her in the face, well . . . that’s just tragic. What would she think it is, do you suppose? A random flying sausage?”

I lift my head and glare at him. He dissolves into laughter.

When he’s composed himself, he leans over and ruffles my hair like I’m twelve. “Bug, you can’t take everything so personally. He’s a drummer. They’re fire starters. They like to hit hard.”

“You know who he is?”

Jamie nods, smiling. “I’ve dated my share of musicians. And drummers are
always
the most trouble. That one in particular.”

Suddenly, I’m all ears. “What do you mean?”

He lifts a shoulder. “I dated this drummer for a while who was at Juilliard. He was amazingly talented, but his idol was your friend in there.” He inclines his head, indicating A.J. “He thought the man could walk on
water
. Had posters of him all over his bedroom.”

“How old was this guy? Seventeen?”

Alarmingly, Jamie sighs. “I wish.”

I make a face at him. “Ew.”

“At any rate, Big Daddy apparently has some rare neurological condition called synesthesia that allows him to see musical notes and certain other sounds as colors. No—chromesthesia, that’s it. It probably makes him a little crazy.”

When I stare at him blankly, Jamie provides further explanation.

“So not only can he memorize a song in one pass because he’s using more than one sense to experience the music, he also has perfect pitch.”

I make a sound that indicates I’m not getting it.

“Okay, imagine a fireworks show. You’ve got yellows, greens, whites, reds, blues, all the colors of the rainbow exploding in the air above your head.”

I nod, following him so far.

“That’s what it’s like for people with this particular type of synesthesia. Every song they hear is a symphony of three-dimensional color they can see, not just musical notes they hear. They
see
the song. It hangs in the air all around them, like a living rainbow.”

Stunned, I sag back into my chair. I try to imagine it, and fail. What must that be like, to live with a kaleidoscope of color all around you, flitting like butterflies in the air?

A terrible thought strikes me: Does A.J. hate me because of the way I
sound
? Does he see the color of my voice as a putrid vomit yellow?

Jamie cocks his head. “What?”

I whisper in horror, “Is my voice ugly?”

Because he knows me so well, he grasps my meaning without further explanation. He rolls his eyes. “No, bug, your voice isn’t ugly.”

Unconvinced, I cover my mouth with my hands. It suddenly makes so much sense. The way A.J. sneers at me. The way he seems to cringe in my presence. His inexplicable dislike.

I am killing him with my hideous voice. When I speak, he sees diarrhea flying through the air.

“Oh, for God’s sake, Chloe, stop being so dramatic.” Jamie stands and pulls me to my feet. “Honestly, if you just understood men, your life would get a lot easier.”

I’m offended. “I understand men!”

His raised brows refute my statement.

“And what is that supposed to mean, anyway? How does it apply to Prince Charming out there?”

The look my brother gives me is almost as penetrating as one of A.J.’s. “You call the man you claim to not be able to stand
Prince Charming
?”

I produce an extravagant sigh. “I’m being sarcastic, obviously.”

“Obviously. In exactly the same way he calls you Princess. Which irritates you so much.”

His logic is irritating, too. “It’s not the same thing! And he started it!”