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Without even asking her to, New Lola takes over.
“We’ve actually met twice. The first time, he came into my bakery to tell me I was too loud, too early. He scared me, and I thought he was going to murder me because he broke into the back room.” Her mouth drops open.
“No shit!? How!? Oh, God, did he pick the lock?”
Pick the lock!?It’s alarming how she said that like it’s something he would do.
“I ,uh, I left it unlocked.”
“Baaaaabe,” she says with a chin dip to me, like a big sister giving advice. “That’s so unsafe!”
“Yeah, I know.”
“So the second time?” I sigh.
This one is a bit more embarrassing.
“Last night. I came down to ask him to keep it down. The music in here? It was rattling my apartment. I’m usually pretty chill about that kind of thing, but with everything going on, I was exhausted. But he kind of got annoyed with me and . . .”
“He was a dick?” I cringe, not denying but not confirming. “Interesting. Ben is usually super chill, if not a little stick up his ass-y and broody as fuck.”
“Yeah, I got that.” I lean forward, feeling a bit more comfortable, and snag a sugar cookie off the tray. She smiles at me with approval.
“You know, it’s not usually that loud here. We had an event going on.”
“So he said,” I say, taking a bit to give my mouth something to do other than continue talking and embarrassing myself. “We’re usually only open late on weekends. But even then, doors close by 11:30. Even on the boardwalk, it's a bad idea to get a tattoo after 11:30.” I smile because that makes sense. No one should make a decision that will stick with them for the rest of their life at midnight while on vacation. “Once a month during the summer, we do bulk tattoos. People choose from a sheet of 12 options, and we give them a quick, fun tattoo. The money goes to an arts charity that—” She doesn’t get to finish because the room is suddenly darkened with a tumultuous presence.
Ben Coleman stands in the hallway, which I assume breaks off into booths for tattooing. Dark jeans, a fitted black tee, and a pair of black boots look way too good on him.
He should not be allowed to look that good.
“What are you doing here?” he asks, eyes running up and down me before moving to Hattie and then the tray of treats.
“I, uh . . .”
“You can’t bring food into a tattoo shop. It’s supposed to be a sterile environment,” he says, eyes fixed not on the tray, but on the cookie that’s still in my hand.
“Fuck off, Ben. Don’t be a dick. Like you never eat in the shop? Never drink coffee?” She rolls her eyes. “Is this how he was when you guys met?” she asks, and my face burns.
“What does that mean?”
“I hear you were a dick to our new neighbor.Breaking into her bakery?”
“I didn’t break in. It was open.” Hattie stares at him with a “good try” look on her face. “You gossiping with my employee?” he asks, eyes to me.
“No, God, I—”
“Jesus, Ben! Why are you being like that?” Hattie asks, her brows furrowed in confusion. Ben rolls his eyes at her then looks at me.
“Do you have anything to say?” he asks, and although I have lots of things to say—indignation and anger and embarrassment all fighting to speak first—I can’t get a single word to move past my lips.
“When my client gets in, send him back, yeah, Hat?” he asks, then he turns around and disappears without a single word to me.
Hattie watches him leave with wide, shocked eyes.
“What an asshole,” she murmurs under her breath.
“I heard that!” he shouts back.
