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“You’re so charming,” I mock with a shake of my head. “It’s amazing how women allow you to sleep with them.”
“I have a big?—”
“Don’t.” My palm shoots up to stop him from finishing that sentence because it doesn’t take a brain scientist to determine what he’s going to say. "You’re going to ruin my lunch.”
“Alright…alright.” He holds both palms in the air when I don’t sway his way. Plus, he’s as impatient as my four-year-old. “If you change your mind about how I’m about to charm my way into women’s beds…you got my number.”
“I forgot what I put it under.” Miles scrunches his brows in confusion when I don’t add on to that. “I can’t remember if I put it under Wannabe or The One That Always Asks Me About His Schedule.”
He instantly frowns. “You’re kidding.”
“Am I, though?” I push my lips out as if thinking about it. “Nah, it was one of those.”
“Liv…” He scowls at me as if I’m a total asshole.
Maybe I am.
However, he made me this way with the constant breakdown of his day. It’s only in his calendar, like everyone else’s, that I sync every hour.
Miles sighs when I don’t apologize and returns to the counter, leaning in with his inked elbows placed back on the counter when my phone buzzes for attention. “Did you book the appointment from social media today?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
I pull up a picture I took for another of our tattoo artists, Devin—an intricate skull and lilies that he did on some dude’s calf the other day—and begin another Instagram post. “Friday, like you asked.”
“What time?”
“Four.”
“Did I say four?”
“Yes.”
“Did she change anything?”
“Not that she mentioned in the DMs.”
“Can you ask?”
Mother of all hell.
“Sure,” I reply through gritted teeth as I try to think of something unique I can put along with the post.
“Are you going to put up that eight-hour session I did with that dude yesterday and the panther?”
I finally release a sigh of exasperation, giving him my full attention for the third time because he doesn’t and never seems to understand that other people have work to do around here, too. “I can’t.”
“Why?”
Sometimes, I don’t believe we live on the same planet at this point.
“Because it was on that guy’s ass, Miles. You had the tongue near his butt crack.”
Miles chuckles—not sure why—and slaps the counter. “Motherfucker was stupid.”
I snort my response at first because it was, then cup my chin with my propped palm, batting my eyelashes when I say, “How did it feel? Being up that close and personal with a random dude’s ass for almost eight hours?”
