"You can't touch fresh ink. Not with bare hands. Not like that."
"Of course." I know the drill. I have a dozen tattoos. I… I'm better than letting my libido take over.
But, God, it's been so long since my body responded to anyone.
It hates me. This is more evidence. If it liked me, it would respond to someone else.
To anyone else.
"Come with me." He pushes past me. "Bring your stuff."
I grab my stuff and follow him into the lobby.
It's still empty. Just us. The store doesn't open for an hour. Walker is due in after lunch. Brendon too. Leighton showed me the schedule yesterday. (She also gushed about how hot they were. But not as hot as Ryan, of course).
Dean walks straight to his suite. All the way to the mirror.
He studies his reflection. He studies the ink. "What do you see?"
My work on someone's skin.
The rest of the world is a blur.
My thoughts are a blur.
My brain is screaming like a fourteen-year-old fangirl.
This is the coolest thing in the history of the world.
He makes eye contact through the mirror. "Chloe?"
"Yeah?"
"You want to do ink 'cause it's cool?"
"No."
"To piss off your family?"
"No."
"To prove you're a rebel?"
I fold my arms. "What the fuck?"
"If you love ink, you look at tattoos all the time."
"Of course."
"So, tell me what you think about my new ink." He pats his shoulder. "No holds barred."
Okay…
"I know it's tough concentrating. The bulging muscles are distracting. I tried to find a skinny model for this demo, but I was the only person available." His voice lifts back to that teasing tone. I'm Dean Maddox and I take nothing seriously.
"It suits you."
He stares at the reflection of the ink. "Yeah. But is it good?"
I tell the raging fangirl inside me to calm. Take a deep breath. Exhale slowly. Yes, it's amazing that my work is on someone's skin.
But is it the best it can be?
I study the reflection, but it's too far away. The details elude me.
I move into Dean's suite.
Past his chair. And the stool next to it. All the way to the mirror.
My fingers brush his upper arm.
The design looked perfect on paper, but there's something off about it on his shoulder. The top is too small. The bottom is too big. It curves around his arm at an awkward angle.
The lines aren't sharp enough.
The beige and brown blend into his tan skin.
"It needs work," I say.
"How?"
I drop his arm.
He turns. Stares into my eyes, hanging on every word as I explain what isn't perfect. When I'm finished, he shakes his head. "You're too hard on yourself."
"My sister says the same thing."
"Gia, right?"
"Yeah."
"She into you doing tattoos?"
"She thinks it's cool." I take a step backward. "I designed this for her."
"Oh."
"Oh?"
"And here I thought you had a thing for scoundrels."
"Cute."
"I try."
I bite back an insult. He tries to annoy me. To stay "hilarious." To press all of my buttons.
But why?
Dean's okay when he isn't being the most obnoxious person in the universe.
Where can I find more of that guy and less of this one?
"Redo it." He nods to my sketchbook. "Make it work better."
"You're the client."
"Yeah?"
"Shouldn't I be listening to your input?"
His smile spreads over his cheeks. "You'll do whatever I ask?"
"It's your tattoo."
"What if I want it to say Chloe Grace Lee has a fantastic ass?"
"That's a little obvious, don't you think? Might as well have it say 'water is wet.'"
His eyes brighten. "How about Chloe Grace Lee is madly in love with me?"
"If you want my name on your body that badly, just ask."
He smirks. "You're right. It's my ink. But some people have bad ideas. Want shit that won't work. It's your job to give them good ink. You have to steer them in the right direction."
"But—"
"You don't know shit yet, yeah. This is lesson one. You have ink."
I nod.
"Right here." His fingers curl around my wrist. He traces the word inked on it. Hope.
I cringe, anticipating his insult.
But he stays serious. "You pick this font?"
"Yeah."
"It's thin. Delicate. Perfect for a small part of your body. The tattoo is long. Not overly so—it's a short word. But long enough it stretches over your skin."
I nod.
"This was the right place for it." He pulls a marker from his back pocket. "But here?" He scribbles the word hope in the middle of my forearm in cursive. "Doesn't look as good."
It doesn't.
"It's too small for that body part. It's swallowed up by all the skin. But this." He measures the tattoo on his shoulder with his fingers then brings it to my forearm. His fingertips tap my skin at my elbow crick and my inner wrist. "Fuck, you're tiny."
"Five one."
"This is too big for your arm. But mine." He holds out his arm. "It would work."
"Where else?"
"Curve of the hip. Lower back." His fingers brush my lower back. Press the cotton fabric of my tank top into my skin.
It's soft. Tender. Like the night he…
I swallow hard.
"I have an appointment at ten. I want you sitting by my side the whole time." He motions to the counter. "Set up. Do the work Ryan assigned you. If you finish early, fix this."
"Do you want it somewhere else or on your shoulder?"
"I need this on my shoulder. I'll die if I don't get it on my shoulder."
"Die, really?"
"Yeah."
"Aren't you supposed to motivate me to do my best work?"
"Yeah?" His eyes light up with epiphany. "Be careful, sunshine. If you bite, I bite back."
"You started it."
"Even so." He sits back in his chair. Spreads his legs in that blow me position.
I flip him off.
He chuckles.
I want to slap him.
And kiss him.
It's weird.
But it doesn't matter.
Dean is my boss. I'm keeping this professional. End of story.
Chapter Six
Chloe
"Rick, Chloe. Chloe, Rick." Dean's voice is casual. Effortless. Like he's shooting the breeze at his favorite bar.
Rick, a tall guy with dark hair and a nervous smile, offers his hand.
I shake. "Nice to meet you."
"Yeah." His eyes trace a line down my body then fix on my chest.
My cheeks flame. It's been two years. I've spent them—no, I've spent my entire life living in tank tops.
I should be used to this.
But I'm not.
"Any way I can get her to do it instead of you?" Rick teases.
"It's her second day," Dean says.
"Even so." His gaze shifts to Dean.
Dean looks to me. "What do you think, sunshine?" He hands me the tattoo gun. "Want to do this freehand?"
Want to? Hell yes. I want to do ink now. But I'm not even close to ready for it. This isn't putting pen to paper. If I mess up, that's it. My mistake is on someone's body forever. "Not a good idea."
"Sorry." Dean shrugs. "I tried." He motions to his client. Sit down.
Rick follows orders.
"Get me the temp tattoo, Chloe." Dean leans in to whisper something in his client's ear. He shoots me a serene smile. "Please."
Is that sarcastic or earnest?
I don't know.
It doesn't matter.
This is a request from my boss. Not sass from my enemy.
I work with Dean.
I take orders from Dean.
Learning to do ink is worth dealing with a million obnoxious Deans.
There's a perfectly good temporary tattoo in the printer—Dean checked it a hundred times. Even so, I scan his drawing, hit print, wait for the machine to spit out the adhesive paper.
There. I snip it as small as I can and return to the main room.
The shop is still empty. There's no conversation, laughter, or grunting to drown them out.
I move close enough to eavesdrop.
"Come on. Be honest. You tapped that?" Rick asks.
Dean laughs. "Is she a PlayStation controller?"
"You know what I mean?"
"Is it the 90s? Is my hair rad?" He shakes his head, sending his long bangs flying in every direction. "Are my jeans fly?"
"Your hair is trapped in 2004. A little eyeliner and you'll be rocking the emo look," he says.
Dean chuckles. "You're brave, Rick. Braver than I am. But you know what they say—"
"Chicks dig guys with eyeliner?"