The Man I Shouldn’t Want (1)

~ Rose ~

I don’t see him come in. I only feel the air shift like the room has gone ten degrees hotter in an instant.

There’s only one man I’ve ever known who could fill a room just by existing. Too tall for any doorway, shoulders so broad they block out light, and a scent that always made me forget my name: smoke, amber, and everything I was never supposed to want.

I’m adjusting the display of silk scarves near the front window when the bell above the door tinkles. I keep my head down, my back to the door, even though something inside me pulls tight.

“Morning, Rosie.”

That voice… low, smooth, and so familiar it makes my pulse leap. I smooth a wrinkle that isn’t really there just to keep my hands busy.

I can’t move. I don’t want to feel this… and yet every cell in my body is already on fire.

I’ve told myself a thousand times that I’m over the man who used to sit at our dinner table, fix my dad’s bike, and smile at me like I was a kid. That the night I spent with Diesel… my father’s best friend… was a beautiful mistake and would never happen again.

I never answered his message the next morning. Not because I didn’t want to, but because I did. Too much. I panicked. And when I finally worked up the nerve to reply, he’d already left town without a word.

But now he’s back, dripping confidence, filling my tiny boutique with the scent of smoke and clean heat.

Of course he had to come back and open a tattoo shop right across the street from mine. Like the universe decided to punish me with inked-up temptation and unresolved tension.

I straighten, forcing my shoulders back, then turn slowly, my eyes locking on his. He stands in the doorway, arms crossed over a black tee that does nothing to hide the tattoos snaking up his arms. The sleeves are cut off just enough to show thick muscles, and his jeans fit so perfectly I can’t help picturing those hands on my skin.

His gaze drifts slowly over the shop, lingering on the shelves, the neat stacks of scarves, the jars of candles. It’s not idle curiosity, it’s possessive… like he’s already imagining himself in this space.

“Nice place,” he says, sliding in like he owns the floor beneath my feet. He moves with that easy grace I hate, like he never leaves a room without breaking something.

I swallow. “Thanks.” My voice comes out too soft. I clear my throat. “I’m… busy.”

He takes two steps forward, closing the distance until he’s right behind me and I feel him. Hard. Pressed against the swell of my lower back like a secret he can’t hide.

His fingers trail over a silk scarf on the counter, the same kind he once tied around my wrists.

I suck in a shaky breath and a wicked throb pulses deep between my thighs, proof that my pride may lie but my body never forgot.

“Everyone’s busy,” he murmurs, his breath ghosting over my ear. “But you made time to stare at me this morning.”

I jerk away and spin to face him. “I did not.” My cheeks burn. “I was setting up for the weekend market. You wouldn’t understand; you just opened that tattoo shop across the street to start trouble.”

“I opened that shop to watch you walk every morning. To remind you I’m still here. And to make damn sure no other man even thinks about touching what’s mine.”

“You don’t get to say things like that,” I whisper, wishing it didn’t make my stomach flutter. “You left. You don’t get to act like you still have a claim on me.”

Diesel’s lips twitch into something like amusement. “Oh,” He steps closer, his eyes darkening. “I remember you told me it was a mistake.”

I clamp my mouth shut. God, I did tell him that.

My fingers curl into fists at my sides.

“That night shouldn’t have happened,” I say, even though the words taste like a lie.

His eyes narrow like he hears the doubt I can’t hide. I glance down at my hands. They’re trembling.

He laughs… a low, rumbling sound that vibrates in my chest. “Was it? Or do you think I was the mistake?”

I hate how easily he twists the knife. I hate how much I still care what he thinks.

I cross my arms, leaning back against the display table so my body isn’t pressed up against his.

“Either way, I moved on.”

His jaw ticks, just once. Barely there but I see it. Then his hands curl into fists at his sides like he’s holding back the urge to touch me. Or maybe break something.

His gaze flicks to my chest, then back to my eyes. “Really?” He leans in, close enough that I can see the rough stubble on his jaw, smell the tanning lotion mixed with the leather of his jacket. “Then why’d your windows glow like you were waiting for me?”

I blink. For a moment I forget how to breathe. He’s right, I have the boutique’s big front window lamp on, making my shop glow like a beacon in the early sun. I lift a hand to the lamp switch on the wall behind me but he grabs my wrist before I touch it.

His fingers are warm, calloused, and they curl around my wrist, holding me in place. The same hands that once fixed my bike chain. The same hands that held my hips like a secret no one could know.

I still remember the way his mouth found mine in the dark, how I gripped the hem of his shirt like it was the only thing keeping me from falling apart.

Heat explodes under my skin, the same reckless heat I felt the night he showed me what desire could be.

“Let me go.” My voice cracks on the words.

He tightens his grip. I hear the smirk in his next words. “Not yet.”

Panic flares in my chest. I want to pull away, to shove him out of my store, to refuse him everything. Instead, my body betrays me… my pulse is hammering, my breaths shallow, my nipples tightening beneath my blouse.

“You really think I’d let you back between my legs just because you showed up smelling like trouble?”

He lowers his voice to a growl. “You can’t pretend, Rose. You want me here. You want me all over you again.”

I wrench free and take a stumbling step back, bumping into a rack of clothes. The chandelier overhead shakes, scattering fractured light across the floor. I close my eyes and press my palms into my temples trying to sort out what I’m feeling—anger, fear, want, shame.

When I open my eyes Diesel is still standing there, leaning casually against a shelf of hand-poured soap bars. He watches me like I’m a puzzle he’s determined to solve.

I should hate him. I should demand he leave. But the truth is seeping through my defenses: I missed him. I missed the way he took me apart and made me feel powerful and vulnerable all at once.

Back then I didn’t know what it was I felt for him. I just knew it was dangerous. Now I know exactly what it is and I still want him anyway.

“How long are you in town?” I manage to ask, my voice barely above a whisper.

His face softens for a fraction of a second, almost like he’s surprised I spoke. Then it hardens again. “Long enough.”

“Long enough for what?” I challenge, trying to find some spark of control.

He pushes off the shelf and crosses the room in three long strides. He stops so close that I can feel his breath on my lips. “Long enough to get what I came for.”

I blink. Heat floods my cheeks and my throat tightens. “And what is that?”

He reaches up, tilts my chin, and forces me to meet his gaze. His eyes are endless dark pools where I used to get lost.

“Do you know how many nights I’ve had to keep my mouth shut while your father talked about how proud he is of you? And all I could think about was the sound you made when I had your legs wrapped around my shoulders.”

A tremble runs through me. I didn’t realize I was holding my breath until he whispers, “You think I haven’t imagined what you’d look like now? Grown—alone—not under his roof. I waited, Rose. Before it, after it. Don’t make me wait again.”

My knees threaten to buckle. I taste the words before they come out. “You left me. After everything. You didn’t even say goodbye.”

His face softens as his fingers graze my cheek slowly. “Because if I’d stayed, I wouldn’t have stopped. And your father? He would’ve buried me for what I wanted to do to you.”

Something inside me stumbles.

For a second the years peel away, and I see him… not the cocky bastard who opened a shop across the street, but the man who once looked at me like I was gravity. The man who held me together when my father was too drunk or too busy chasing whatever wore a short skirt.

I should slap his hand away. I should say something cruel. Instead, I breathe him in.

“You still should’ve stayed,” I whisper, more to myself.

He steps back, leaving a pulse of heat in the space where he stood. I watch him cross my floor toward the door, each step measured. He pauses at the door, one hand clenched so tight I can see the veins in his forearm.

“I told myself I’d keep my distance,” he mutters. “But then I couldn’t stop myself. And now that I’m here, I’m not leaving, Rosie.”

The bell jangles as he leaves and I’m left staring at the doorway, my heart pounding, my body aching, and every part of me on fire.

I sink to the floor behind the display table, wrapping my arms around my knees. I stocked my shelves with candles to calm nerves and soaps to wash away sins. Now Diesel’s lit a fire I can’t put out.

I’d managed to avoid him these past few days but now, the inevitable had caught up with me.

And this was only our first encounter.