“Eddie, I don’t have a type. What are you talking about?”
“You know, like that Harley dude you were talking to tonight.”
“Harley? I don’t know anyone named Harley.”
Eddie rolled his eyes. “Shaved head. Red beard. Muscles. Tattoos.”
“Ahh. That’s Bruno.” Holy cow, Eddie was jealous of a guy twice his age who smelled like a wet horse. She grasped his shoulders. “I’m not trying to get into his pants. I’m trying to get into his tattoo shop.”
Adorable, the way Eddie’s nose wrinkled. “Another tattoo? Where will you put it?”
She should let that opening go, but who could blame her? The setup was too perfect. She hooked a finger in the neckline of her shirt and tugged. “Oh, I’ve still got lots of un-inked skin. Didn’t you notice?”
His eyes widened and darkened.
She punched his shoulder playfully. “I’m trying to get an apprenticeship. You know, on-the-job training.”
“You need that?”
“No decent shop will hire me without one.”
He nodded slowly. “Makes sense. I wouldn’t want to be anyone’s test case for something so permanent.”
“Too bad.” She grinned. “I have the perfect idea for your tattoo. Wanna see?” When he just goggled, she added, “Don’t worry. It’ll be years before I’m allowed to ink anything this elaborate on someone’s skin.”
Looking pale and queasy, he nodded. “Okay, show me.”
He followed her back to the sofa, where she pulled her notebook from her bag and flipped to the design she’d worked on tonight, a double-headed eagle clutching a royal orb and some kind of scepter. “Best I could do without a closer look.”
His jaw relaxed open as he traced the design with his fingertip. “This is my belt buckle?” He caressed the worn silver oval. “It was my great grandfather’s. He fled Soviet Russia in ’38. Chemistry professor. Too vocal about his views, nearly got himself killed. He landed in Seattle and went into the laundry business.”
“And your family’s been doing that ever since?”
“Yeah.” His chuckle rang dry and dusty. “Until me.”
“I don’t understand. You work for your parents, right?”
“For now.” His thin-lipped expression told her to drop it. She might be tactless, but she could take a hint.
“Can I take a picture?”
Her pulse sprinted when he started to undo his belt. “Not necessary. I’ll just—” She pushed the coffee table back, knelt between his knees, and snapped several photos. Flipping through the images, she grinned up at him. “Perfect.”
There it was again, that funny choking sound. She patted his knee and pushed to her feet, then plopped down beside him. “Tell me about the design.”
He blew out a breath. “Russian Imperial seal. Military officers wore it. Great-granddad’s father was one. Killed in the Stalinist purges. Ugly business.” He chuckled. “That’s all Dedka will say about it—‘It was an ugly business.’ ” He lifted the book and examined her rough sketch. “You’re really talented, Rosie. Will you show me when you finish this?”
“Sure.” Hard to speak through her wide grin. “Now show me yours.”
His eyes widened, then crinkled in laughter. “Ah, my—” He pointed to the kitchen cabinets. “Okay. Fair’s fair.”
He went to fetch the posterboard. Even though his back was turned, she caught him adjusting himself inside his jeans. Immediately, her mind spun away to memories of his thick, heavy cock. She shifted on her seat to ease the sudden tingling heat between her thighs.
He removed a stack of books from the coffee table and lay the poster board there. “Feels like show and tell time.”
She examined the patchwork of magazine clippings, computer printouts, and floor plans. Most of the images were bar and restaurant interiors—plush stools and booths, bar layouts, lighting fixtures, plus lots of bottles, mostly vodka. Here and there, images of people—bow-tied bartenders, a server or hostess in a sleek black dress, and in the top left corner, Eddie smoldering in a dark suit, arms crossed like some mafia badass.
She pointed. “Hot stuff, Eddie. I’ve never seen you in a suit.”
“Well, you know…” He shrugged and dipped his head to hide a sheepish grin. “Bangers isn’t that kind of place.”
Understanding dawned. “But your dream bar is. And you’re the boss.”
“Someday.”
“This is why you’re studying business?”
With a wry grin, he ran his fingertip along the red arrow connecting words among the images: Learn—Plan—Entrepreneur—Dreams don’t work unless you do—Stand out—Simply the best. “I have never felt like a bigger dork than I do right now. And I have a lot of years of dorkdom behind me.”
She scooted closer and put her hand on his knee. “Eddie, you’re not a dork. You’re a man with a vision.” Her eyebrows shot up. “This a vision board, right? We made these my senior year. Mine was covered with tattoos.”
“Like you?” He nudged her with his shoulder.
“Well, back then I only had a few. They’re expensive, you know.” She nudged him back. “Do your parents know?”
He bit his lip.
“Right—that’s why you hide it behind the TV.” She squeezed his knee. “Oh, Eddie. This must be so hard for you.”
“It’s—yeah.” He slouched back on the couch. “They expect me to take over their dry-cleaning business.”
“Can’t someone else do it?”
“Only child. Family business. Tradition.” He leaned his head onto her shoulder, and his soft hair tickled her neck. “To hear them tell it, our family crest is made up of wire coat hangers and plastic garment bags.” He slid into a Russian accent. “Dry cleanink has been wery, wery good to our family.”
“Very sexy accent, Boris.” She ruffled his hair. “Vehr is Moose and Sqvirrel?”
He chuckled and laced his fingers through hers. “They’ve always been so proud of me. They even keep all my wrestling trophies in my old room, like some kind of shrine.”
“Saint Eddie of Tacoma, patron saint of barbacks. At least they’re proud of you, though. Beats being the black sheep no one expects anything from, especially when you have an over-achieving sister.”
Back and forth, they talked into the wee hours about family, future, and the loneliness of taking a different path. Eddie fetched pillows and made
