“Give it to me straight.”
I smiled and turned toward him, momentarily forgetting that there had ever been a time when he’d seemingly disliked me.
“It’s a little dark,” I said.
He let out a loud sigh. “I knew you were going to say that.”
“Because it’s true,” I insisted, pointing to the homepage that looked like it could be a tour announcement for an old death metal band.
Harrison pinched my bright pink blouse between his fingers and held it up as if to show me. “Be objective. I own a tattoo shop. I can’t just make everything pink and call it a day. Think about my target market.”
“I obviously know that. Don’t insult my marketing capabilities.” The skin underneath where he’d just touched my shirt felt branded. I was acutely aware of it even though his hands now rested on the table. “First off, you’re trying to attract a wider market, no?”
He ran a hand over his face. “I guess. But?—”
“And even for your current target market, there is such a thing as too dark. I mean, come on, Harrison. Dark gray font over an almost-black background? Who do you expect to be able to read this?”
He squinted at the screen. “I can read it.”
“Because it’s easy for you to read, or because you typed every word yourself and you already know what it says?” I challenged him. “And this font. Did you just select the first choice and run with it?”
“It looks fine.”
“It’s Times New Roman. Of course it’s fine, but it’s also a hundred years old. Here.” I clicked around as Harrison angled himself closer so he could see every change I made. The deep furrows between his brows warned me he was ready to object if the cursor even hovered near a shade resembling pink. Instead, I updated the header font to a blockier choice, with a different one in the same family for the paragraph text. I left the background dark, but changed the font to a light gray that was about as close to white as you could get without being too stark.
“See? Isn’t that better already?”
He shrugged stubbornly. “Doesn’t look that different.”
I smiled and swatted his shoulder. “You’re a liar.”
“Fine. It looks better. Thank you.”
Something flickered across his face that I couldn’t quite place—but it looked like intrigue. A lock of my hair fell forward and I tucked it behind my ear, brushing past the piercings that lined my lobe. His eyes lingered there, and I could practically see the judgment forming. He probably thought I got them done at some cheesy teen store or something.
“I didn’t get them pierced at the mall, if that’s what you’re thinking,” I said, unable to keep my mouth shut.
He blinked a few times, looking guilty. “Why so many?”
“Because despite what anyone else thinks, I like them,” I said simply, not caring to get into the story of how my ex made me take out my first piercings in high school because he said they looked “trashy.”
“I like them too.” Harrison studied me but didn’t say anything more. The air felt heavier in the room. Part of me wanted to make an excuse and get the hell out of there, but I forced myself to push through.
“What about this section?” I pulled up the “about me” page that was painfully bare.
“What about it?”
“It’s just a picture of you with your name and how long you’ve been tattooing. It’s basically empty.”
He just stared at it before returning his gaze to me. “Right. About me.”
A small laugh escaped my throat at his seriousness. “You can’t include one singular personal detail? Getting a tattoo is personal. Some people want to know something about the artist who will be etching something permanent into their skin.” Ipoised myself at the keyboard, ready to type. “How did you get into tattooing in the first place?”
His eyes scanned my face. My skin grew hot under his stare, and I shifted in my seat to break the tension.
“Um, hello?” I said, hoping on everything that my cheeks weren’t as bright red as they felt. “Earth to Harrison. I asked you a question.”
“How I got into tattooing?” He blinked a few times before repeating my words. “Why would anyone care?”
