Tell Me It’s Right (Sweetspire #1)

Chapter 5

Chapter Five

GRACIE

The sun wakes me again the next morning, but this time, I roll over, throw a pillow over my head, and go back to sleep. If all I have to look forward to in the mornings is an interrogation from Keava, I think I’ll start waiting until she leaves to go upstairs.

“You planning on skipping your first day of work?”

A scream lodges in my throat as I jolt upright and find Liam standing at the foot of my bed. I yank the blanket over my chest despite being completely covered in my oversize T-shirt.

“I—what are you doing here?”

He paces around and glances at my belongings—most of which are still in boxes—like he’s browsing in a store. “Keava let me in.”

“What are you doing in my bedroom ?” I fish my phone out of the sheets and squint at the time. “At six in the morning ?”

That, finally, makes him look over at me. His expression is entirely innocent, as if this is a perfectly normal thing for him to do. “Thought you might need a ride. Leo said you don’t have a car anymore.”

A very unnecessary reminder. I sold it toward the end of junior year when Mom and Dad were constantly arguing over whether they could afford to put Grandma in a nursing home, and I couldn’t bring myself to tell them the money they’d been sending me wasn’t covering the electricity…or food…or gas, so I couldn’t drive the damn car at that point anyway. I’d taken on an unpaid internship that year in addition to my crazy class schedule, leaving no space for a job.

I don’t respond at first, my brain still trying to wake up. “You…were serious? About the job?”

“I’ll go grab some coffee. That’ll give you about twenty minutes to get ready.” He pops his eyebrows and heads for the stairs. “Meet me out front.”

It doesn’t occur to me until after I’ve showered, put on a quick face of makeup, and am standing in nothing but a towel staring at my clothes that I have no idea what Liam does.

I have no idea what I’m supposed to wear.

I have no idea what I’ve gotten myself into.

I close my eyes, trying to remember what he was wearing—I think it was a T-shirt. So, casual. Jeans are probably a safe bet. I fish a baggy pair out of a box and try to remember which one has my shirts.

A horn honks outside.

Shit.

I throw on the first thing I find—a plain black T-shirt. At least if I tuck it in and throw on a belt it’ll look a little more put together.

Another honk.

Hair wet and shoes in my hand, I hurry outside to Liam’s black truck idling against the curb.

“Took you long enough,” he says as I hop in the passenger seat and lean down to slip on my shoes.

“Shut up.”

“That’s no way to talk to your boss,” he muses, then taps the cupholders between us. There’s a hot coffee on his side, and a large iced one for me.

I read the label—cold brew, coconut milk, hazelnut syrup—and slowly look up at him.

He doesn’t look at me, just pulls the car away from the curb and shifts his weight.

“The barista said she remembered your order,” he finally says. “She get it right?”

Something about the way he says it makes me…not believe him.

“Um, yeah. Er—thank you. I’ll pay you back.”

“Gracie, I don’t give a shit about a five-dollar coffee.”

I quietly take a sip and focus out the window. The sky is light pink with the sunrise, and the streets are pretty quiet. I expect him to take a left for the main street, or even the highway, but he circles back toward the coffee shop on the corner and parallel parks in front of it.

My eyebrows inch up my face, but I say nothing and follow him as he climbs out of the truck. Instead of heading for the coffee shop, however, he veers for the shop right beside it. I crane my neck to see the sign.

Brooks Tattoos.

I don’t know how I didn’t notice it yesterday. Maybe I’m just used to seeing the Brooks name on half the businesses in town, though this one looks nothing like their other logos. Not to mention the last kind of place I could imagine getting Mr. Candyman Brooks’s approval.

I’ve never spent much time around Liam’s dad, but I remember Mom and Dad always getting…weird whenever he came up in conversation growing up. Pained smiles, changed subjects, and always offering to let Liam stay at our house longer.

Keys jangle as Liam fishes them out of his pocket and unlocks the front door.

The lights are off when we step inside, and it doesn’t escape my attention that the sign on the door says it opens at ten. Why the hell is he here at seven in the morning? He flips a switch, and the shop comes to life.

I don’t know what I’d been expecting—something dark and scary and vaguely cave-like—but it’s cozy. The shop itself is narrow and long, sectioned off with a sitting area at the front, a desk, and the tattooing stations in the back. Three, from the looks of it. The entire right wall is exposed brick, painted white, and covered in framed art, movie posters, and skateboards with paintings on the bottoms. Sunlight streams in from the wall of windows at the front, making the space seem light and open.

Liam sets his coffee on the front desk then disappears into a closet in the back. I shift my weight and linger in the entryway, looking around. My reflection in the mirror on the far wall stares back at me—probably for people to check out their tattoos once they’re done—and all I can think is What am I doing here?