Written on My Heart Read online

  Even now, just knowing he’s on the other side of the door sends my heart into palpitations.

  “Hey, everything okay in there?” Lane calls out. His voice is muffled through the door. “Sounds like there’s been a herd of elephants stomping around over my head all night.”

  I cringe as I walk to the door. We did make a lot noise moving the bed away from the wall.

  “Lane?” Emily turns to look at me. “What’s he doing here?”

  I shrug, hoping to appear more nonchalant than I feel. “He’s been coming over after work to fix a few things.”

  “How often does he come over?”

  I pause. Hank has beat me to the door. His nose is jammed in the crack as his tail spins like a propeller. “Um, every night.”

  For the first time since I’ve met her, Emily says nothing. She turns away, but not before I see the confused lines furrowed across her brow.

  I open the door, and my throat squeezes tight. Lane stands inches away, looking very much like the sex god he always does. Every inch of him radiates a heat that tingles against my skin. Reflexively I pull back, not because I’m afraid, but when he’s that close, I’m dangerously close to forgetting the rules I’ve set into place for myself. Number one, don’t get involved with taken guys and, number two, don’t get involved with your landlord. The second rule is relatively new, but it’s important nonetheless.

  But God, if the sight of his taut chest peeking through his gray V-neck T-shirt doesn’t make me want to forget all of my damn rules long enough to explore the muscles beneath with my hands.

  “Laney!” Emily calls, reminding me I haven’t spoken a word since I opened the door.

  With my cheeks burning, I back out of the way so he can enter.

  “Em?” He steps past me, his eyes lingering on my face just long enough to make my stomach flutter. “I know you were painting, but what’s with all the noise?”

  Emily raises a paint roller. “We’re throwing a rave. What do think we’re doing, genius? We had to move some things around to reach the walls.”

  He turns to the painted walls and folds his arms as he appraises our work. He’s quiet, his face unreadable.

  My heart plummets in my chest. “You hate it, don’t you?” He looks at me but I don’t give him a chance to respond. “I should have asked you before I picked the color. Shit. Don’t worry. I can change the walls back to white as soon as the paint dries.”

  “No.” He turns back to the walls. “I love it.”

  “You do?”

  “It’s an amazing color—really brightens the place up.” He bends down and picks up a roller from the paint tray. “Where can I start?”

  “There.” Emily points to the unfinished portion of wall in the kitchen. “We were saving that for last because neither one of us could move the fridge.”

  “Wait.” I step forward. My heart pulses an electric rhythm in my veins. “You don’t have to stay. Emily and I have this under control. Besides, I know you have someone to get home to.”

  “Harper?” Emily arches an eyebrow. “But she’s with—”

  He cuts her off. “I’m happy to help.”

  Emily gives him a peculiar look I can’t interpret.

  Lane looks away. Either he doesn’t notice, or he’s choosing to ignore her.

  “That’s it, I’m going home.” Emily throws her hands in the air. “I thought I heard my brother say he’s happy to help someone. That’s how I know I’m exhausted.”

  “What? No!” I move in front of her, blocking her path to the door. I can handle working in Lane’s shop because he’s usually too distracted with a customer to notice I’m there. And then later, when he works on the apartment, I make it a point to position myself in the opposite side of the room with a book—far from accidental groping range. When I watched him work, bent under the sink with his muscles flexing, I couldn’t think of anything but running my fingers over his muscles. Which is exactly why I can’t be alone with him now.

  “You can’t leave,” I say. “We still have two more walls to paint.”

  She shrugs. “We only have two rollers, Ash. Besides, Lane is a much faster painter than I am. You’ll be done in no time.” She steps around me. “You need to call me tomorrow.” She jabs a finger at Lane. “We have stuff to talk about.”

  “Sure. Whatever.” He glances at his boots. He actually looks embarrassed.

  “B-but the beer!” I stammer. “You bought that whole case and you only had one.”

  She makes a face. “Meh. You keep it. I’m just not feeling it tonight.” She walks to the door.

  I take a step toward her, my mind racing to find any excuse to make her stay. But short of saying, Please don’t go. Your brother is sex on legs and I’m worried I’ll do unspeakable things to him once you leave, I have nothing.

  She opens the door and steps through. Looking over her shoulder, she shrugs. “I don’t like to get involved in other people’s lives,” she says, in a whisper only I can hear. “Just be careful. This could go one of two ways; fucking amazing, or fucking messed up as shit. I’ll be rooting for you.” She shuts the door without giving me a chance to reply.

  One of two ways? Rooting for me? What the hell does any of that even mean? Unfortunately, I don’t have time to decipher Emily’s cryptic warning. I have more pressing matters at hand—mainly the six-foot-something sex on a stick I’ve suddenly found myself alone with. Son of a bitch.

  My palms are sweaty, and I wipe them on my jeans as I slowly turn around. Lane’s already at the wall, gliding the roller down plaster with quick, strong strokes. The knots of anxiety inside my chest loosen just a fraction.

  It’s okay, Ash. Nothing is going to happen. Sure Lane is the hottest guy you’ve ever met, and just looking at him tightens things low in your body, but hey, you’re a big girl now. You can control your urges like a mother-fucking adult.

  In an attempt to steady my nerves, I inhale deeply through my mouth then grab the other roller and slide it along the paint pan. When the foam can hold no more paint, I walk to the opposite end of the wall and begin working. Still, in an apartment this small, Lane is closer than I like. I glance over my shoulder, momentarily mesmerized by his flexing biceps as he works the roller along the wall.

  Holy hell. I involuntarily lower the roller to my side. Even through the paint fumes I can smell his cologne, warm and spicy. The scent of it travels through my nose, filling my lungs, making me dizzy. I close my eyes and fight to suppress a shudder. When I’m sure I have myself under control, I open my eyes and resume working. Several minutes pass and silence fills the space between us, thick and pulsing.

  “So,” Lane says finally, his focus never leaving the paint gliding onto the wall. “There’s beer?”

  “Yes!” I practically shout, dropping my roller into the pan. I already drank a bottle with Emily, but that was nearly an hour ago. One more can’t hurt, especially when I so desperately need something to take the edge off.

  I rush to the fridge, pull two bottles from inside, and twist off the tabs. After taking a long draw from my own bottle, I walk the second one over to Lane.

  He reaches for it without looking and our hands touch, his fingers wrapping around mine. Our eyes meet, tightening my throat and locking the breath inside my lungs. It’s not until he shimmies the bottle from my grip I realize that was his intention all along. The corner of his mouth quirks into a grin as he lifts the bottle to his lips and takes a lopsided swig.

  A flush creeps along my neck, and I duck my head, hoping to hide my embarrassment behind a curtain of hair. I quickly grab my abandoned roller and retreat to my corner of the room.

  Lane starts to whistle as he spreads the paint across the walls. Is he playing with me? Arrogant jackass. Too bad my annoyance does nothing to squash my arousal. With renewed vigor, I work furiously on my own section. Unfortunately, it doesn’t distract from the man beside me, the man whose shoulders pull taut each time he rolls out a long, even stroke of paint. Maybe I’m imagini
ng things, but I would swear he’s deliberately slowed his pace.

  Which is bad. Very bad. In response, I quicken my own. With my resolve draining away, I have to finish this wall and get Lane out of the apartment as fast as possible.

  Before I don’t have any resistance left.

  Chapter Twenty

  Ashlyn

  Lane steps back and admires his work. He’s already moved the fridge and stove away from the wall, and his side of the room is nearly complete.

  Thank God, because I don’t know if it’s the paint fumes, the beer I chugged, or the dizzying effects of watching Lane’s arms strain against his shirtsleeves as he moves the fridge, but I’m having trouble concentrating through the swirling inside my head. The sooner Lane leaves, the better.

  After Lane pulls the fridge several feet from the wall, he turns to his roller sitting in the empty pan. “You got any more paint?”

  I nod, not trusting my voice due to the tightness of my chest. I grab the paint can from the corner and return to his pan. The can is still half full, and the small wire handle digs into my palm. My breathing is unsteady, making my hands shake. I turn the bucket on its side, but the paint moves faster than I expect, falling into the pan only to splatter over the side and onto the floor.

  I let out a gasp, and clutch the bucket against my chest. The green droplets glare at me from the floor like a dozen angry eyes. You’re such a clumsy idiot! a voice screams inside my head. A child can pour paint into a pan without spilling it. But not you, because you’re absolutely worthless.

  The words are ghosts of those spoken to me before, but they remain inside my brain like razor blades, always cutting, and too deep to pull out.

  “Ash?” Lane’s in front of me—funny because I don’t remember him moving. “It’s fine. It’s just a little paint. We can clean it up with a wet rag.”

  My arms tremble and I set the paint can on the ground before I make more of a mess. He’s missing the point. It doesn’t matter that I can clean up the mess. What matters is that I made it in the first place. “I’m so sorry. I’m such an idiot.”

  He frowns and grabs my arms. “Who told you that?”

  I don’t answer. I’m too transfixed by the paint to form words.

  “Ash.” This time he gives me a small shake, forcing me to look up at him. His eyes are narrowed, and anger radiates in warm waves that prickle against my skin. Immediately my heart jumps inside my throat, and I try to shrink out of his arms, but he holds me fast. He says something, but I can’t make out the words over the beat of my own pulse. I can’t run, can’t escape—I’m trapped.

  I’ve been in similar situations with my stepdad, and the outcome was never good. Fear paralyzes me and my legs give out. I crumple in Lane’s arms. He secures me against him with an arm around my waist and he reaches for the paint can with the other. I just know he’s going to dump the entire thing onto the floor and force me to clean it up—that’s what my stepdad would do, after all. And it’s what I deserve for being so clumsy.

  Instead, he sets the paint can on the kitchen counter. I try and curl into myself, to disappear, but his arms hold fast. My fingers are balled into fists and tucked under my chin. He wrenches one free and pulls it toward the paint can. His face is blurred, but I can see his lips continue to move, spilling words I can’t hear over the crash of static inside my head.

  He tries to pry my fingers open with his thumb, but I won’t budge, so he dunks my entire hand into pail. I don’t understand what he’s doing. The paint is thick and cool against my fingers. He lifts my wrist from the bucket and paint trails green ribbons down my arm. Before I can stop him, he places my hand against his cheek.

  The warmth of him seeps into my skin, spreading throughout my body. Green paint stains his cheek and dots his whiskers. He releases my wrist and yet my fingers stay, exploring the line of his jaw and the tendons flexing beneath my palm. He covers my hand with his, the paint turning sticky and sealing us together like glue.

  Slowly, my breathing steadies and the rush of sound inside my head begins to quiet. His face falls into focus, the anger that was in his eyes only moments ago is gone, replaced instead with concern. “Ashlyn.”

  The sound of my name from his lips loosens something in me, and my hand falls from his face, leaving a wide, green stripe in its wake. “I don’t—I don’t understand.”

  “It’s paint, Ashlyn. Just paint. It doesn’t matter.” He takes his hand, dips his finger into the paint bucket, and lightly taps my nose with it.

  Reflexively, I jerk back. “Hey!” I swipe at his face with my paint-covered hand, miss, and make a wide streak on his gray shirt.

  With a smile, he swings at me and manages to catch my cheek, creating a long, sticky trail all the way to my chin.

  “Lane, stop!” I fight the grin pulling at my lips.

  His own smile turns wicked. “Make me.” He reaches for me, but I duck under his grasp.

  I dart to my own paint pan and grab the roller, brandishing it in front of me like a sword. “Don’t you dare take a step closer.”

  Without hesitation, he takes one exaggerated step toward me. Throwing his arms wide, he asks, “Now what?”

  I can’t help but giggle as I swing the roller in front of me. “I mean it!”

  “Oh yeah?” Lane glances around until his gaze lands on an abandoned paintbrush in the sink. He grabs it and dunks it into the paint pail, saturating the bristles. He holds it in front of him, paint dripping to the ground.

  My throat tightens. “The floor.”

  “I’ll buy you a new one. Whatever kind of floor you want—laminate, linoleum, ceramic, you pick.” Before I can respond, he lunges for me. I squeal and dart out of the way just as his paintbrush streaks by my face. As he stumbles past, I slap him with my roller and paint a stripe down his back.

  He turns around, eyes wide, and pulls his T-shirt at the shoulder, eyeing the stripe. “I can’t believe you did that.”

  He looks ridiculous, with a green handprint on his face and wide stripe down his shirt. I can’t help but laugh.

  There’s something about the amusement in his eyes that transforms his face. I thought he was good-looking before, but when he laughs he makes my stomach fall into my knees in an oh-so-nice way. “You think this is funny?” He quirks an eyebrow—a small movement, but it sends jolts of electricity through my chest. “You’re really asking for it,” he says.

  God, if he keeps smiling at me, I’ll do more than ask for it—I’ll beg, plead, whatever it takes. I lick my suddenly dry lips.

  He lifts his chin and stalks toward me. My heartbeat ricochets off my chest with each step. I tighten my hold on the roller. “You better stay back,” I warn. “You saw what happened last time.”

  He laughs, a deep rumble from his chest. “You think I’m scared.”

  I push my shoulders back, displaying a confidence I definitely don’t feel. “You can’t handle this.”

  He chuckles. “We’ll see.” He lunges for me.

  With a shriek, I skitter backward and collide with the wall.

  Lane’s grin widens. “No use running now—you’re trapped.” He cups his chin in his hand and tilts his head, like an artist appraising his work. “And you know that wall is still wet, don’t you?”

  With a gasp, I lurch forward. Lane grabs my arm and swipes a streak of paint across my cheek. In response, I swing wide, and roll a line of paint down his arm. I’m giggling so hard my lungs burn and I’m heaving for breath. We’re both laughing as he pulls me closer, threatening my face with his freshly painted arm. I’m struggling against him when my foot slides in a pool of paint.

  I start to fall when Lane, still holding my arm, manages to twist his body to keep me from hitting the ground too hard. Unfortunately, the move knocks him off balance, and he topples to the floor beside me. Smiling, he rolls to his side and props his head up on his hand. “You look ridiculous.”

  I’m sure I do. Even if I can’t see the green streaked across my face, I can
feel the paint tightening on my skin as it dries. “You’re one to talk. You look like you’re about to move back to the swamp with your talking donkey.”

  He barks out a laugh. “Is that so? Well, what’s an ogre without his ogre princess?” He grabs for the paint pan and dips his hand into it. “The transformation is almost complete. Looks like we missed a spot.” He points a paint-covered finger at my forehead.

  “Don’t you dare!” I kick my legs in an attempt to scoot away.

  “No you don’t!” With sticky fingers, Lane grabs my wrists, pinning them to the floor. He swings a leg over my waist, straddling me. He leans down, his chest heaving. “Are you going to say ‘Uncle’?”

  A charge of electricity passes between us, buzzing beneath my skin and catching my breath in my throat. My smile fades as a flush courses over me. The heat from his hands feels as if it’s searing my wrists, and yet I don’t want him to let go. Even as the room wavers and the entire world feels like it’s falling away, he holds on.

  “Uncle.” The word is barely a whisper as it leaves my throat.

  “Too late,” he says, and I know he’s right. The wall I’ve worked so hard to build between us is crumbling with each breath I take. I actually have to fight the urge to buck my hips toward his, to close the cruel distance between us. I’ve been falling for so long and he’s the first person to hold on.

  Without warning, his lips crash against mine like a tidal wave. He swallows my gasp of surprise as his tongue meets mine. His mouth tastes sweet, and there’s an urgency to his kiss. His hands grip tighter and his mouth works harder against mine, almost as if he’s trying to drink me in. I kiss him back, just as hard, because if he can drink me in, I’ll let him. And then I’d remain there for always, a part of the man who wouldn’t let go.

  He joins my wrists together and readjusts his hold with one hand. With the other, he trails his fingers down my paint-streaked arm. An ocean of shivers follow in his wake as I claw at the air and writhe between his legs.