Page 40 of Text Me, Take Me

When I step into the studio, I stop breathing for a second.

The scent hits me first: fresh wood, new leather. Warm, ergonomic lighting cascades from above, softening the shadows and catching on the brushed steel edges of the custom workbench.Myworkbench. There’s an engraving, precise and deep along the edge.

My name, carved with the finesse of someone who respects a maker’s tools.

The bench itself is impressive, clearly custom, the surface solid and smooth. Reinforced for weight, with cubbies and drawers organized in a jeweler’s dream configuration. Every tool I could ever need is laid out in velvet-lined compartments: high-precision calipers, multiple grades of pliers and cutters, handheld torches, polishers, clamps. Swiss-made, Italian-forged, Japanese-honed.

No expense spared. No compromises.

My fingers itch just looking at the laser engraver in the corner. And the faceting machine – German, by the look of it – is the kind of equipment you only ever see in international ateliers or whispered about in maker forums.

Then I see the safes. Two of them, reinforced and flush with the cabinetry, with biometric locks. He didn’t just stock this studiowith tools. He gave me materials. I open one slowly, and I almost gasp. Raw gemstones, uncut sapphires, aquamarines, a whole cluster of tourmalines like frozen candy. Some of these stones shouldn’t even be outside a vault. These are collector-grade, museum-quality. I spot a watermelon tourmaline slice so perfect I want to cry.

I turn in a slow circle, my heart catching in my throat. This isn’t just a studio. It’s a love letter… to craftsmanship, to artistry, to me.

Tears sting my eyes, and I want to scream at him in joy and appreciation and resentment… resentment for making me care when he so clearly wants to pull this cold and distant routine.

He stands in the center of the studio, his hands behind his back, trying to look nonchalant. “Do you like it?”

Losing control, I run at him and throw myself into his arms. He catches me and spins me in a circle as our lips meet. I kiss him passionately, ignoring the weight of the anklet, the cold metal gripping my leg.

He pushes his mouth against mine, groaning as he sets me down, ending the kiss but keeping close, staring meaningfully into my eyes.

“I love it,” I tell him.

“I know it’s tough being here. I thought this might help.”

“This is literally a dream come true.”

He kisses me again. I sink into the moment, ignoring the little voice in the back of my head whispering,He’s painted the bars in pretty colors, but this is still a cage.

His cellphone rings before we can get carried away. He groans when he checks it. “It’s Rafe. I have to get this,” He answers, then frowns. “It hasn’t been ten days yet. Why would they do that? I’ll be there soon.”

He hangs up.

“Is it them?” I ask.

“The Vultures vandalized one of my recording studios.”

“How do you know it was The Vultures?”

“I’ve put Rafe in charge of security. He caught one. This could be our chance.”

“Are you going to… get answers from him?”

Dom stares bleakly at me. “You don’t need to know the details. But the sooner we find them, the sooner you get to leave.”

He turns away. I grab his hand, pull him toward me, and throw myself into another confusing kiss. He holds me tightly, then brushes the hair from my face. Romance and lust clash in the darkness of his eyes.

I move my hands down his arm, touching his silver cufflinks.

“Thank you for this.”

“The look on your face is all the thanks I need.”

He leaves me in the large, improbable room. Once he’s gone, I turn in a circle, taking it all in again. It honestly is like he’s reached into my imagination and plucked out my wildest, most impossible dream and brought it to life.

I go to the workbench, running my hand over my engraving:Evie Davis.

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