Page 82 of Broken

From the way she looks at me, and the pretty pink flush on her cheeks, she’s thinking it too.

“Come on,” I lead her away from the bustle of the market and over to a pathway into the small park where there are more benches.

Once we’re seated, Calli frowns down at her drink. “You’re perplexing me.”

“Why?” I lift a brow.

“I understand what you brought me here for, I don’t get why. Why do you care?”

Straight in with the hard questions. Can’t say I blame her. Hiding shit isn’t my way but with this, I have to. Scaring her over Caleb isn’t happening, the less she knows about him, the better.

Of course, there is also the added complication that I care.

“I hate to see talent wasted,” I say.

“I’ve told you my reasons.” There isn’t much force in her voice but there is definitely a smoldering fire. “You still haven’t answered the question.”

“Pretty sure I did.”

“That doesn’t tell me why you care. You hate to see talent wasted. You could say that about a lot of people. Why me specifically? I don’t want you or anyone else to feel sorry for me. It’s why I came here, to get away from all the pity. And accusations.”

“Did you enjoy tonight? Sitting with Ziva, drawing again.”

She looks pissed I pivoted the conversation again, but answers me anyway. “I’ve never stopped drawing. None of it means I’ve lost my passion for it.”

Her brow creases. Shit, she’s beautiful when she gets angry. I want to prod at her to make that look intensify. It shouldn’t get me hard.

“You’re not happy,” I state frankly.

“I’m perfectly happy,” she straightens her spine and glares at me. “I came here for a fresh start and it’s what I’ve got. I have a good job, great friends, a nice place to live. No one knows me here.”

“All surface stuff. And it’s precisely my point. No one knows you, so why are you hiding? Does working at a coffee shop make your heart pound? Is that what gets you out of bed in the morning?”

“I never asked for your opinion, or your advice.”

“I’m giving it away freely.”

“Oh great. I’m blessed,” she rolls her eyes.

She’s going too far in the wrong direction now. If I want to get into her apartment building, I have to stop antagonizing her. That thought makes me feel like a prick.

“This thing,” she points between our bodies with a finger. “Has always been one-sided. You know so much more about me than I know about you. Why should I accept you are doing this to help me, when you haven’t told me a single thing about yourself?”

“That’s fair. What do you want to know?”

She’s taken aback and her mouth falls open, then snaps shut. I can see the wheels turning. I opened myself up to this and can guess what’s coming. Before she can ask, I speak up.

“I became an apprentice tattooist after I got out of the army. It took me three years to work my way up to having clients who asked for me. All of my time and money was put into tattooing. Then buying the shop. I’ve got everything I want because I put in the hard work.”

“You’ve already told me you were in the army. And I know about the shop.”

“See, you do know things about me.”

“Not because we’ve had an open and honest conversation. It’s all been in passing. Or small talk because we don’t want to do the whole wham bam thank you mam then kick each other out.”

I can’t help but let out a laugh at that. Her head spins to me. There is more curiosity in that gaze than annoyance. She squeezes the plastic cup of green water with bits floating in it.

“Tell me something.”

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