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I should’ve taken Max up on his offer for a ride, but I wasn’t thinking clearly. It’s hard to keep my thoughts straight when speaking to him.
I can’t believe I told him about the Cillian stuff, the incident. Talking to him is way easier than it should be. We haven’t said anything outright romantic, but last night, it felt like we had the potential to go there. It was in the way he spoke, borderline possessive, commanding, and now, sir is going to ink my skin.
“How are you feeling today?” I ask, which typically knocks Jane off course.
She rants about her no-good ex-fiancé. I say all the right things, but I’m so nervous, butterflies dashing around my belly the closer we get to his house. When I see it, I almost gasp—no clue how he can afford this on a professor’s salary. Is he some kind of criminal? Or does he have an inheritance?
It’s a large estate surrounded by a metal fence. Through the slats in the fence, I can see a long gravel pathway winding up to the front door: stone steps, gargoyles, and a three-story property.
“A tattoo studio,” Aunt Jane mutters, killing the engine. “And what’s the name of this esteemed tattooist?”
“It’s… Ryan,” I say. “James Ryan.”
“James Ryan. He must win the prize for the most generic name imaginable.”
She stops talking, staring at the house. Her mouth falls open as Max walks across the lawn, wearing a casual T-shirt that shows off his tatted, muscled arms. His hair glistens in the setting sun. He stops at the fence and stares.
Jane is outright gaping at him. She’s never been subtle with men, but this is something else. She looks like she’s on the verge of jumping from the car and running at him. It’s like she’s going to jump his bones. She’s going to spring into ultra-seductive Aunt Jane mode. Mom always says that about her baby sister. She knows how to make people like her. Sometimes, Mom says it like it’s a bad thing.
Aunt Jane’s shock turns into a slow, coy smile. Her eyes glimmer as she turns to me. “He’s your tattoo artist, Ellie?”
“Uh, yeah,” I murmur, hating the flush in her cheeks and the excitement in her voice. I hate myself just as much because it’s unfair of me to judge her for being attracted to him.
She doesn’t know I want to scream at her for even thinking about it. She doesn’t know how desperately I long to feel those strong, tatted arms wrapped around me.
Max waves, then turns, walking back to the house. The gate starts to open.
“Not very friendly, is he?” Jane murmurs.
I swallow, reaching for the door handle. I can’t tell her the real reason he probably looks so pissed, why he turned and fled to the house like that. He doesn’t want anybody to know about us, much less for anybody to know we’ve spent time together. That’s why he offered to send me a car.
“I think he’s busy today. Lots of bookings.”
“Hmm,” Aunt Jane says. “You’ll want a ride home, I suppose?”
“No. I’ve got a friend picking me up.”
I tell the lie quickly, not even thinking about it. I’d rather not worry about how to get home right now as long as Jane gets out of here and I don’t have to think about them being together, Jane getting her claws in. Her fiancé left her recently, but already, she’s gaping at men. Am I being hella judgmental?
“Good for you, making friends,” Jane says. “I know that’s been hard for you.”
I look at her, wanting to say something mean and snap. Is she making fun of me? But her smile seems genuine, and her eyes are even a little hurt, as if she’s wondering why my reaction is so over the top. She must be able to read the reflexive pain in my face. “Yeah, it has been, but it’s better now.”
“Ah, that’s good.”
I climb from the car, walking through the big metal gate. As I cross it, it begins to close with a soft electronic whine behind me. I can feel Jane watching me with each step, and I wonder if she somehow has guessed that he’s not a tattoo artist. Maybe she’s thinking he’s an older boyfriend? But that look was like she wanted him.
When I reach the porch, Jane finally drives away. I raise my hand in a wave, but I’m not sure she sees. From inside the house, soft barking gets louder when Max pushes the door open. My heart shatters into a million tiny pieces when I see the Chihuahua, white fur patchy, baring its teeth. It has one missing in the middle. It creeps to the edge of the porch.
“Sorry about him,” Max says, his tone dark, not looking at me when he speaks.
He seems even bigger standing on the porch, his muscles rippling like he’s mad.
