Page 45 of Spring Break Fling

“Some of the best stories aren’t PowerPoint slides,” she replied. “Sometimes they’re in the details most people miss.”

She was different tonight. Guarded, yes, but not in the way she’d been before. She wasn’t just hiding—she was playing. Every time I thought I was getting close to peeling back one of her layers, she’d deflect, throwing me a curveball or a cryptic comment that left me spinning.

“You’re good at this,” I said as we walked to the coffee bar.

We got two cups. I watched as she stirred sugar into hers. The silver bracelet on her wrist caught the light.

“At what?”

“Keeping people at arm’s length.”

She didn’t deny it. Instead, she smiled faintly, swirling the spoon in her cup. “In my world, information is currency. You don’t just give it away.”

“Smart,” I said. “But exhausting.”

She looked at me then, really looked at me, and for a moment I thought she might actually let her guard down. But then she flashed a smile that was a tease. She knew what she was doing.

“Show me more of your art,” she said. “I happen to know someone that needs a tattoo fixed. I’d like to see what it is you can do.”

I chuckled. “Come on.” I gestured toward another section of the gallery, where a few more of my pieces were hung. The lighting here was dimmer, somehow more intimate, allowing each tattoo on display to tell its own somber or vibrant story.

I stopped in front of a large black-and-white photograph that captured one of my earlier works—a phoenix rising from ashes. “This one was for a woman who had survived a house fire. She lost everything, including her beloved dog.”

“I see the paw print.” She smiled.

I nodded. “When she sat in my chair, she wanted just the paw prints. Then she told me what happened to her dog. She had just bought a new house and put a deposit down with a breeder for a new dog. I saw her as a phoenix. Which weirdly enough, I’ve done a lot of phoenix tattoos. Just did one the other day. People are constantly renewing themselves.”

“Is it the same tattoo?”

“Absolutely not,” I said with a shake of my head. “I tailor it to their story.”

“Very cool.”

We moved along to look at more art, but I saw her looking back at mine on several occasions.

The tension between us was almost unbearable. Every word, every glance, every touch had built up into something electric and unspoken.

For the first time in a long time, I felt like I might be in over my head. And damn, did I like it.

15

HANNAH

The gallery was starting to clear out, but I didn’t want the night to end. Nikko had surprised me in more ways than one, and for the first time, I was seeing past the cocky exterior to the thoughtful artist underneath. His tattoos weren’t just designs—they were stories inked into skin, personal journeys given shape and form.

As we wandered toward the exit, I slowed my steps, trying to prolong the evening just a little longer.

“You really do see things differently,” I mused, glancing over at him.

He shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe I know what to look for.”

There was a convenience store next door. It had a seating area inside.

“Want to get something to eat?” he asked.

“At a convenience store?” I asked skeptically.

Nikko grinned. “Trust me. They have the best street tacos in this part of town.”