All of You Read Free

needed for the night.
     
“You’re a tattoo artist?” Holy Mother of God, this man just got hotter. I looked at his arms but saw
     
no telltale signs. “I’d think you’d have more tats on you.”
     
My fingers slid over the back of my ear near the tattoo I’d gotten when I’d turned eighteen and
     
finally escaped my mother’s house. He’d probably think it was amateurish at best.
     
“Nah, just a couple of well-placed ones.” His cheeks pinched into a grin and he looked down at his feet, almost shy about it. His teeth were perfectly white and straight and mesmerizing. “Sometimes less
     
is more, you know?”
     
And sometimes more is more. My eyes roved over his stacked biceps and down the front of his
     
jeans. Having a fuck buddy in the same apartment building could prove to be interesting. Or a disaster.
     
I needed to reel it the hell in and remind myself that this guy was not interested in me. Yet.
     
“Okay, gotta run,” I said. “Good luck moving in.”
     
I eyed his friend, who stood on the grass texting someone. I considered whether he’d be a good
     
prospect as well. “You guys big partiers? This building is on the quiet side.”
     
“Nope. Last night was the extent of the kind of partying I do. And it’s only me moving in up there.”
     
Bennett was moving in, alone . He turned back to the truck. “See you later.”
     
I restrained myself from glancing back more than once to see if he was watching me. He wasn’t.
     
Disappointment and indifference waged a war in my chest.
     
***
     
Work was busy that day, between med counts, feedings, and bed changes. Sometimes I felt like a
     
glorified chamber maid. Some of the elderly were downright nasty. Were probably always nasty, even
     
before they became sick.
     
And then there were gems like Mrs. Jackson. I’d become accustomed to seeing her kind eyes and
     
soft wrinkles every day for the last year. I knew better than to get close to the residents, because I’d said
     
my share of good-byes, usually to empty bedsheets and untouched trays of food. I wasn’t really one to
     
build emotional connections anyway. But Mrs. Jackson had somehow broken through my barrier and
     
befriended me.
     
If I was being honest, she reminded me of my grandma, who died when I was twelve. Feisty,
     
strong-willed, and never minced words. Total opposite of my mother. No wonder we seemed to
     
understand each other pretty well. “Is that a smile I see on your face?” she asked as I entered with the extra pillow she’d requested.
     
She could always read me well. I’d just been thinking about Hot Boy living in my building.
     
“I wasn’t smiling,” I said, placing the pillow behind her neck. “You’re imagining it.”
     
“Mmm-hmmm . . . Then why are your cheeks flushed?”
     
“Now you’re just dreaming,” I said, filling her glass with fresh water. “I think the meds are
     
affecting your brain.”
     
“Don’t you play with me, girl,” she said in her spirited way. The bronze fingers of her good hand
     
reached for my arm. I bet she was a pistol, a force to be reckoned with, in her day. “It looked like you
     
were thinking about a man.”
     
“No way. Never. Boys are stupid.”
     
“Not all of them.” It was the same conversation, different day. Mrs. Jackson had a doting husband
     
who had visited her every single afternoon since she’d been admitted after her stroke. He usually had a
     
fresh bouquet of flowers or a Snickers—her favorite candy bar. She may not have had good use of her
     
right arm or leg, but she was still lucid and could appreciate the visits, unlike many of the other patients,
     
who were riddled with dementia or Alzheimer’s.
     
“Unfortunately, you got the last remaining good guy in the entire universe,” I said, moving toward
     
the door. “There are no more available. Maybe I’ll have to steal him from you.”
     
“I may be old and sick, but I’d tackle you to the