here yet, but she’s never late.” She gestures to a row of chairs along the wall. “You can sit and wait.”
Damn. After driving slow and breathing like a moron, I’m still almost ten minutes early. “I’ll take a look around.”
“Okay. Can I get you anything? Bottled water? Coffee?”
“I’m good.”
“Okay. Name’s Shaya, if you need anything,” she says politely.
I wander over to the counter with the photo albums containing custom work, hoping for some inspiration. I flick through the stuff again. Although it’s great work, nothing grabs me.
My phone vibrates as I shut the book. Since I’m expecting it to be one of the many girls who constantly blow up my in-box, I’m slightly annoyed to see it’s a bank update. My monthly allowance just went into my account. Gotta love my parents, coming through with the only form of love they know how to deliver.
With nothing else to do, I hit my father’s number on speed dial. He doesn’t answer and I don’t leave a message. My mother doesn’t answer either, but her recorded voice says, “Leave a message, but we’re in Barbados until the end of March.” I smack the phone on my leg. They could have told me they were taking a month-long trip out of the states, but no. They don’t tell me shit. Don’t even answer my calls.
Pissed off, I move over to the row of chairs and plop onto the middle one.
My parents have always been the distant kind. I had a nanny until I was ten, and though they were hardly around, they seemed to at least like me. But once my full-time babysitter left, my attention-getting antics brought nothing but perpetual sour glares. When they weren’t too busy. And ever since my father retired two years ago from being a surgeon, it’s felt like we live on opposite sides of the US instead of opposite sides of Michigan.
My elbows dig into the hard metal arms of the chair as I wearily rub my hands across my face. Even though I’m twenty years old, thinking about my parents still makes me feel like that lost ten-year-old boy, which has me peeved. I don’t need anyone. Much less their lame asses.
I race—if nine miles over the speed limit can be considered racing—to work. I’d been so wrapped up in finishing my paper for Business 302 that I’d forgotten about the appointment Mandy had scheduled for me on my day off. Or maybe I wanted to forget. I’m not looking forward to working with Mr. Hottie, whose bedroom eyes will be striving to strip away my casual indifference along with my clothes. His bad boy aura bugged me—I’m beyond done with bad boys—but his gaze bothered me most. The last thing I want to do is design for him. Then there’s the fact he hit on Mandy, which she was
After parking in the lot behind the shop, I rush through the back door.
Shaya bursts into the hallway. “You’re late. You’re never late.”
“Got distracted working on a paper.”
“Well, he’s been waiting for almost a half hour.”
“I’m not
“He came early.”
I cock my head to the side, thinking. Either he’s the punctual type or he thought Mandy would be working. That wouldn’t surprise me—I hired Mandy because she’s attractive. She may not be the brightest bulb in the box, but I’m not above using whatever tactics are necessary to keep people, males to be exact, in the shop. Her looks along with her flirting help distract them from me. Many guys who are into tattoos are attracted to girls who can ink. Like artistic talent means that a girl will be a kinky, sexual gymnast in bed.
“Huh,” I say, opening the door to my office and pulling off my jacket. I yank my iPad out of my bag and toss my coat on the desk. “Don’t get all worked up. I’ll take care of it.”
Out in the shop, I’m greeted by the sight of Justin’s long body curled in one of the chairs along the wall. His hands cover his face while his fingers dig into his temples. I walk over to him, but he doesn’t look up, so I clear my throat. His green eyes, as deeply shaded as a painting of an English garden, are filled with a pain that makes me step back. The flirty guy from the other night has been replaced, at least for the moment. Somehow I find my voice. “Hello, Justin, I, um, want to apologize for my lateness.”
The tortured expression on his face dissipates as he stares at me. Though I’m wearing a tank top with the shop logo, skinny jeans, and calf-hugging brown boots, I feel naked under his gradually warming gaze. “No problem. Can’t say I minded waiting for you to come,” he says, smiling like he holds some secret knowledge.
It’s easy to ignore what is probably innuendo with his deep dimples distracting me. Dang, dimples get me every time. But I
He stands gracefully while I try to ignore those dimples.
“All right,” he says. “But I have to warn you, I’m counting on your abilities as an artist to bring me some inspiration.”
Tall and lean, he towers over me. The hint of a five-o’clock shadow on his sharp jaw contrasts with the dark blond rumpled hair falling over his forehead, and the white of his teeth contrasts with his coppery skin. In his distressed jeans and a faded, fitted T-shirt with sunglasses resting in the V neckline, he looks like he stepped out of a magazine ad for something ridiculously priced and European. Or maybe for an exotic men’s cologne. Because he smells fantastic. Words like
I pull out the chair in front of my drafting table, putting on my best professional face. “Have a seat,” I say. “I should be able to come up with something.”
I hold in a sigh as I set my iPad on the surface and then drag out the stool from under the table. Sometimes part of my job is pulling inspiration from my clients. But for some reason, I don’t want to know more about this man. Those dimples are enough already.
“So you’re a musician, right?” I say, sitting down and plucking a pencil from the cup on my table.
“Singer actually,” he says.
I try to ignore the image of him on a dark stage that flashes through my mind, intent on staying on task. Dang. This would be much easier if he played an instrument. “For a band?” He nods. “What kind of music?”
“Mostly alternative rock.”
The image in my head of him onstage becomes clearer. His lashes lowered. Hips cocked. Strong hands wrapped around a microphone. I ignore it. “Is that your favorite type?”
“I like all types of music. What about you?”
“Not preferential either. You want a tattoo related to singing?” I want to stay off the topic of my own likes and dislikes, especially under his intrusive gaze. He nods while I tap my pencil in frustration. I don’t know how I’m going to survive an hour or more of him staring at me with those hot, shaded green eyes. He flashes another smile at me. When he brings out those dimples, he really is something. “Any ideas?”
“Music notes? A microphone? Art is a bit out of my realm of knowledge.”
I give him a pointed look. “Music’s considered a form of art.”
He leans back to stretch, his legs spread and his muscular shoulders strain against his thin T-shirt as he reaches behind the chair. “Then graphic art’s not my thing.”
Trying hard not to gawk at the picture of masculinity across from me, I force myself to focus on artistic possibilities and reach for my iPad. “Where were you thinking of getting the ink?” I ask, absently biting my lip ring.
He stares at my mouth and my face heats, and for a brief moment I feel like the shy, insecure girl I used to be.
“My back would probably be the best idea,” he says. His tone has me guessing there’s more than the matter of tattoo placement behind the statement, but I can’t imagine why. Glancing at his arm of ink, I release the ring
