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There’s a man—no, a finely carved specimen of artwork—standing in the waiting area of my cute little tattoo parlor peering at the set of latest flash designs I have on the wall.
Holy fucking shit, he’s like a god stepped straight off the pages of a men’s health magazine. I must make a strangled noise because Em is suddenly chattering away to me and calling my name with a little tinge of concern in her voice. My thumb immediately stabs the mute button, and I manage to plaster on a smile.
But my mouth and my brain and my body are going in about ten different directions at once. Meanwhile, I am convinced that every inch of my skin must be looking like a neon pink sign right now. Surely, I resemble a flamingo with the flush racing from my forehead to my toes.
Somewhere from the recesses of my hindbrain, I dredge up some words.
“Umm. Hi. Can I help you?”
His head swivels slowly to look in my direction, and fucking hell, he’s got a jaw cut from granite, covered in dark stubble. Combine that with his mussed, dark brown hair falling at just the right length, and my ovaries start dancing with joy.
Everything about this man screams wealth and power and magnetism. He’s a little older, too, which is like pussy-nip to me. Damnit.
I don’t know what the fuck he’s doing standing in my pint-sized bohemian tattoo studio in a part of town I’m almost certain he has never stepped foot in before. But whatever weird alternate universe this is that I’ve stumbled into, I’m certainly not mad about it.
Out of all people, I, for one, know you cannot judge a book by its cover. But there’s something that just doesn’t add up about the man standing before me and this oddly jarring set of circumstances.
That’s when I suddenly feel a flopping sensation in my stomach. Not the good kind that you’d associate with swoony moments in movies, but the kind that tells you when something is wrong. The logical part of my brain begins to function. What if he’s here because I missed a payment on something? Or I owe the bank some money, or…
I’m spiraling, fast. And as if he can sense that I’m not processing things in a rational way, he straightens up to his full height—which towers over mine—and hitches his shoulders inside his designer suit.
“Are you available for a small tattoo? I know it’s late, and I haven’t made an appointment…” His hands are strong, with veins popping in all the right places; I can’t help but notice as he casually unbuttons the front of his jacket to reveal a crisp white dress shirt. “But I was in the neighborhood.”
Mystery hottie stops a little abruptly. He doesn’t give any more of an explanation, and I don’t think I’m buying for one second that he was just in the neighborhood, so I immediately start coming up with reasons why I’m going to politely decline this incredibly gorgeous man’s request.
All the while, my pussy is screeching at me in protest.
When I glance down at my phone still clutched in my hand, Em’s face fills the screen, and she gesticulates wildly at the camera with a finger twirling in the air, demanding I turn her around. Discreetly tapping my thumb on the icon, I flip the camera lens.
At the same time, I open my mouth to respond to the man waiting silently. Only, he beats me to it, and with a voice like velvet, his words rumble across the space between us.
“I’m more than happy to pay any kind of additional fee you might like to charge. Business is business, and I appreciate that I would be putting you out not only by walking in here like a prick without a booking, but also doing so at this time of day.”
The promise of being able to charge this guy probably twenty times my normal rate stirs up something inside me. I’m sure his suit costs more than a month of my rent. So I jump in with both feet.
“I have a standard fee for late-notice booking requests.” No, I don’t. “But I’d be more than happy to fit you in for a special appointment this evening.” Oh, god. Will I even be able to tattoo this man without drooling all over him?
He regards me with sapphire blue eyes that seem to bore straight through me, and simply nods. His scent is winding its way around me. Citrus and fresh sheets and heavy wood tones that call to me on a cellular level.
I dart a glance back at my phone screen and see that Em has since ended our call. Instead, my screen is blowing up with her texts.
OMG.
WTF?
Is he real?
Did I have an aneurysm?
I take it all back.
Ogle Daddy alllll you like.
Make this the longest tattoo you’ve ever done, bitch.
Take your sweet time.
And then promise to have his babies.
