Page 12 of Possessive Ink

“Do you have your boss’s credit card?” I ask.

“No,” she says, shaking her head.

“Wait, you’re paying for all of this? It’s over a hundred dollars’ worth of steak,” I growl.

“Oh god, I didn’t even…” The smile falls from her face, and I don’t like it at all. Lemon should be as bright and cheerful as her name all the time, and seeing the look of sheer panic on her face is pissing me the fuck off.

“It’s okay, I’ve got it. Then I’ll have your boss send me the money,” I assure her, now even angrier that he sent her out to buy several expensive items without giving her the means to pay for them.

“Oh no, you can’t.”

“Can you afford to pay for his stuff?” I ask, lowering my voice so only she can hear.

Pulling her full lower lip between her teeth, she thinks for a minute, then eventually shakes her head. “No, I don’t think so. I don’t get paid until the end of the week, so I’m running short,” she admits, embarrassment heating her cheeks.

“Then I’ll take care of it,” I assure her, handing the cashier my card as she rings up Lemon’s asshole boss’s food. A bag boy loads all the bags of food back into the cart, and I curl my arm a little further around Lemon’s back as I steer her out to the lot where my car is parked.

“This is your car?” she asks, her eyes wide as she stares at my matte black Range Rover, the windows tinted dark enough that you can’t see inside. “Are you in the Mafia?” she blurts, taking a step away from me.

Anger flares inside of me as she backs even further away. Lifting my hand, I crook my finger, beckoning her to me. “No, Lemon, I’m not in the Mafia.”

Her retreating steps stop, but she doesn’t move any closer. “What do you do then?”

“I’m a tattoo artist.”

Her head tilts to the side, a half smile twisting at her lips. “That makes sense. Do you work at the new tattoo studio that opened up on the other side of town?”

“My brother and I just moved to town yesterday. But I’m starting at the studio on Monday.”

“Oh,” she says, completely relaxing and taking a step back toward me again. “Well, welcome to Rockhead Point. It’s such a great place to live. You’re going to love it here. Is your brother a tattoo artist too?”

“No, he’s a sculptor,” I tell her, still tense as I crook my finger at her again. My body starts to relax when she giggles and shuffles over to my side. I have no idea if she understands what she’s doing to me by being so trusting, but a part of me hopes not.

So many women play the part of trusting and docile, but it’s an act that they can only portray for so long before they show their true colors. I don’t think that’s who Lemon is. In fact, I have a feeling that she couldn’t pretend to be something that she’s not, even if she wanted to, because every emotion she feels is broadcast over her face the moment she feels it.

As soon as she’s close enough to touch, I slide my palm across her back and walk her to the passenger door, opening it and waiting while she climbs into the seat, her pale blue dress contrasting boldly against the all-black interior.

Closing her in my car, I load the groceries into the trunk, then push the cart over to the stand before striding quickly back to the Rover, exhaling in relief when I see her still sitting inside. Climbing in, I push the start button, then turn to look at her. “I have to go and pick up some food for my brother and his PA, then we can finish your errands before I take you back to work.”

“You really don’t need to help me. I can manage on my own.”

“You won’t be doing anything on your own ever again,” I silently say to myself, not speaking the words aloud yet.

It only takes a couple of minutes for me to drive to Tori’s shop.

“Oh, I love this place,” Lemon gushes.

“Do you want anything? I just need to run in. I won’t be long.”

“I actually already came on my way to work this morning. I have a fancy chocolate cake sitting in the refrigerator in the break room,” she admits, her cheeks turning pink.

“Are you allergic to anything?” I ask.

“No.” She shakes her head.

Nodding to myself, I slip out of the car and stride into the patisserie. One of Tori’s staff is manning the counter. “Is Tori in? I’m one of her brothers.”

“Tori,” the guy at the counter calls.