Page 57 of After All This Time

"I've already done it," she says, leaning back and tucking a bright strand of pink hair behind her ear. "And she's perfect."

"You got it here?"

"Yeah, you wanna see?"

"Hell yeah, show me this perfect woman." I lean back in the chair, my curiosity thoroughly piqued.

Lola switches off the needle and sets it down before walking over to her drawer. She pulls out a sketchbook, flipping through the pages before turning it around and holding it up for me to see.

"What do you think?"

"She's hot," I say, tilting my head and letting a slow grin spread across my face. "And she's pretty much naked."

"I'm always naked at home," Lola says with a shrug, completely unfazed. She sits back down, picking up the needle, and the buzz fills the room again. "It felt right."

"She's got great tits."

"They're my tits," she fires back, her focus already back on shading the rose on my chest.

"Then you also have great tits," I respond, grinning as my gaze lingers over the drawing of"Lola."She has perfectly styled pink curls that spiral around her face, and her barely covered breasts are unapologetically front and center. She's all attitude and full of fucking sass, just like my boss.

The only thing pinup Lola is wearing is a pair of denim shorts so tiny they're practically illegal, paired with sky-high black heels that look like they could kill a man. Her body is stretched out in a pose meant to grab attention—arms raised, back arched, legs that go on forever.

"This is gonna look fucking awesome when we're done," I say, glancing at her as she works.

"I know, right?"

I adore Lola. She's not just my boss—she's the kind of person you'd actually want to grab a drink with after a long day, the type of person who makes work feel less like work. This is what I imagine a sister relationship should feel like. Supportive, honest, and full of teasing, but without the drama, judgment, or—thankfully—the urge to bend them over in their ballet studio and watch every single inch of yourself sliding into them from behind.

Lola trusts me not just to do a good job but to hold my own and be capable. And that trust? It does something to me. It's not just validation—it's fuel.

She knows my dream is to one day have my own studio. And while she's always nudging me, she also gets that I'm in no rush. Considering I've only been doing this full-time for a few months, it'd be stupid to jump into something like that too soon.

Besides, I love it here. Lola's built something special here, and being part of it feels like the right kind of pressure—not overwhelming but motivating—and makes me want to show up every day and be better than I was yesterday.

Then there's my dad. The looming shadow. Or as I like to call him,the sperm donor who contributed minimally and somehow still expects maximum loyalty.

I'm pretty sure he's convinced I'll eventually come crawling back to take over his precious family business. Legacy, and all that bullshit.

The fact that I've chosen something completely different for myself? That I've carved out a life he doesn't understand? It's like a crack in the perfect image of how he thinks my life should go. Maybe that's why he never even bothers asking about what I'm doing—it doesn't fit the script in his head. And the fact I'll never step into his shoes? That's likely to send him into an early grave.

When Lola finally finishes, she steps back, taking in the rose she added to my chest. Her eyes flick over the piece, studying it the way she always does before she's satisfied. Then she nods before wrapping me in the protective film.

"There you go. Keep it clean, and don't fuck it up," she says, smirking as she steps back and discards her gloves before sending me on my way.

I know Amelia's working tonight. I figured she'd be holed up in her studio, getting some dance practice before she left.That's what I told myself as I headed home, not sure if I was ready to run into her or not.

But the universe, as always, is an asshole.

When I step through the door, there she is, standing by the entryway like some perfectly timed punch to the gut. She's just standing there, looking way too fucking pretty, like she's tryingto ruin me without even knowing it. Her hair's tied back, loose and messy, with stray strands framing her face, and those wide eyes catch mine like they've got no right pulling me in the way they do.

I haven't seen her since before I stood outside her door and listened to her last night. Something I'm not exactly proud of, but regret? No. Hell no. The memory of her breathy voice moaning my name is still in my head, and I shouldn't want to hear it again, but I do. Over and over, on a loop, until it's burned into me as permanently as the ink on my skin.

She tilts her head slightly, her lips curving into a small, uncertain smile that causes my chest to tighten. She has no idea. No clue how hard it is to look at her and not let every thought I had outside her door come rushing back—her voice, her gasps, the way she sounded so wrecked, like she was made to fall apart for me.

"Hey," she says softly, her voice pulling me out of the spiral.

She's just as confused as I am, but she hides it like a fucking pro.

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