“Grace!” I call out and the little girl appears at the top of the stairs, the dog following directly behind her. I think we all need an activity to take our mind off things, distract us a little. I know I sure as hell do.
Soon, you'll be taking your clothes off for strangers.
The thought makes me sick, so I banish it with a big breath, leading the girls out to my Subaru and loading them up. They're easy enough to get into the car. But Dodger? The dog is a Chinese crested, a nasty little hairless rat. I am so not into little dogs, but what am I going to do? The girls treat this thing like it's their brother. Although it could probably win an ugly dog contest no problem.
“Alright, Dodger,” I say as I bend down and try to coax the hideous little gray and white creature into my arms. “Let's go, buddy.” The dog ignores me, trotting over to a tree and lifting its leg.
My jaw clenches tight.
Oh, hell no.
There is no way I'm letting a stupid dog get the better of me. Not today.
I sprint over as the dog lifts his leg on another tree and grab him around the waist, lifting him into the air before he can bite me—something he's already done twice since I got into town last week. The little fucker.
I toss the dog into the car and climb into the front seat, starting up some rock music and hoping the girls won't complain. I know Ingrid was always a huge country music fan. Me, I like a little screaming in my songs.
“Time for some Amatory Riot,” I say as I scroll through my playlists and find the one dedicated to my favorite band. I smile at the girls as I pull down the sun visor and check my makeup, my hair. As soon as I pull out of the driveway, the song picks up into a raging feminine roar and I head bang my way straight over to the park.
When the girls get out of car, they both pretend not to know me.
“Have fun, ladies!” I call out with a grin as I grab the dog and set him on the ground, closing the car door with a bump of my hip.
I don't make it ten steps into that park before I see the most beautiful creature known to man.
Holy panty-wetters.
I think I've just spotted the God of Tattoos and Piercings.
And I am an ardent worshipper.
I find myself freezing ankle-deep in wood chips as children stream around me like I'm a rock in a river, water parting around my shocked and panting heart.
Who … the fuck is that? And why is he in Eureka, California? Nobody hot lives here.
The man is sitting on a park bench under the trees, one leg propped up, his elbow resting against it as he texts with a furious thumb—a furious tattooed thumb. Half of his head is shaved short and dark, the other half is standing up in a Mohawk. Tattoos peek out from under his tight red T-shirt, staining his neck and arms with vibrant color. I raise an eyebrow at the shirt. It's straight-up nerdy: it has a graphic of the original Nintendo and says Classically Trained, but … the muscles underneath are taut and sculpted and strong.
What a beautiful dichotomy, I think as I bite my lower lip and then grunt as a kid slams into my knees and knocks me into the wood chips.
“Sorry!” she screams, but doesn't stop, sprinting away in a fluttering wave of pigtails as I blink away the shock and try to drag myself to my feet.
“Holy sweet baby Jesus. You okay there?” A tattooed hand appears in my vision. When I reach up to take it, the skin is smooth and dry and warm. My breath rushes out in a burst as Tattoo God pulls me to my feet with little effort, his phone still clutched in his opposite hand. When he smiles at me, I see butterflies. No, like literal butterflies etched into the skin of his throat, right above the neck of his tee. “Sorry about that,” he tells me with a loose, easy shrug. “You wanna sit down or something?”
I nod, but I'm having trouble finding the right words to say to this guy and his gorgeous lips, a piercing dancing on either side, winking in the sun. He's got one in his brow, too, and one in his nose.
Basically, he's hot as hell.
“You hurt?” he asks me, gaze traveling up and down my body appreciatively. When he gets back to my face, he smiles this easy, goofy smile that belies the harsh look of his tattoos and his hair, like he's a bad boy on the outside but a super nice guy underneath.
The last thing you need right now is a man. You need to focus on the girls, and on your master's degree, and your new life in Eureka.
I take a deep breath and run my fingers through my hair, dislodging a few wood chips in the process.
“I'm okay,” I say as I take a seat next to God Guy and try not to stare too hard at his tight jeans, the belt with the skulls on it, the fact that he's not wearing shoes … there are tattoos on the tops of his feet, too. “The name's Brooke Overland, by the way.”