He glances down at the bird and his eyes widen. “Even a smaller version of that is going to be huge, Melody. It would have to be in order to get the detail work in. There’s no way you’d be able to hide it.”
“Why would I want to hide it? Aren’t you going to do a good job?” I ask, ignoring the hesitation prickling at the back of my neck.
The phoenix is beautiful, but have I really thought this through?
I’ve never even considered getting a tattoo before tonight.
No matter how exciting the idea is, maybe I should take a few days to think it over, to plot the best place to put the bird and debate whether a pretty tattoo is worth causing both of my parents to flip their lids. There’s at least a chance Lark and Aria might be cool about a tattoo, but Mom and Dad are firmly in the anti-permanent-alterations-to-their-daughters-bodies camp.
Mom didn’t even let me get my ears pierced until I was fifteen.
“I’d do an excellent job,” Nick says, his features tight. “If I thought this was something you really wanted.”
“I know what I want,” I say, standing up straighter.
“Do you really, Princess?” he asks in a husky voice. “You sure about that?”
Awareness leaps between us again and I watch with fascination as Nick’s gaze darkens, taking on that hungry look. In spite of myself, for a moment I can’t help imagining Nick leaping over the counter, taking me in his arms, and kissing me senseless right here in the front of the shop.
Instead, he says. “This isn’t like you.”
“It really isn’t, Melody,” Kitty agrees gently. “Why don’t we go have some donuts and think about this for a while? We have been drinking, so maybe—”
“Then I can’t work on either of you tonight,” Nick cuts in, his relief obvious in the way his muscled shoulders relax away from his neck. “It’s against state law to work on people under the influence. Even if it weren’t, John and I never work on people who’ve been drinking. It makes you bleed more and can force the pigment out of the skin before it sets. Bad for your tattoo, bad for our reputation.”
I nod, surprised by how disappointed I feel. “All right.” I force a smile. “Guess we’ll have to come back some other time, then.”
“Or don’t,” he says, slapping the smile from my face. His voice is kind enough, but the words still sting. “I really don’t want to work on you, Melody. I’m sorry, but it just wouldn’t feel right.”
“Well…thanks for letting me know.” I press my lips together, fighting for control, not wanting him to see how much that hurt. “I wouldn’t want you to do anything that doesn’t feel right. See you around.”
Without another word, I grab Kitty by the arm and bolt for the door as fast as my aching feet will carry me. I don’t look back to see if Nick is watching, or deliver any parting shots, but inside me a storm is brewing.
I’m going to show Nick I’m not a child, or a baby bunny who needs to be handled with care, or some lame loser too boring to be worthy of his interest. I’ll show him that there are parts of me he hasn’t taken the time to see, new, adventurous, unexpected parts that will make him realize resistance is futile.
He has to feel the same pull I feel, he just has to—the kiss we shared was hot enough to set fire to a glass of sweet tea.
I’ve never felt anything like it before, and darn it, I want to feel it again, even if Nick does drive me crazy sometimes. He can be frustrating, infuriating, yes, but he’s the one who brought this wild, new curiosity to life inside me and I’ll be darned if I’ll give up on him before I find out if our second kiss is as hot as our first.
“I’m sorry,” Kitty whispers as we move down the sidewalk, away from the shop. “I just didn’t want you to do something you might really regret after the tequila wore off. A hangover you can sleep off, a tattoo…not so much.”
I smile. “No worries. But you know, I don’t think I’m in the mood for the tequila to wear off just yet. Why don’t we go check out The Horse and Rider, have a beer or two, and call a cab when we’re done?”
Kitty’s eyes widen, but her lips stretch into a delighted grin. “Hell, yeah. Why not? I don’t have to work tomorrow. Let’s do it, woman.”
We giggle as we dash across the street, just like we used to when we were kids sneaking out after dark to climb up into Kitty’s treehouse and tell ghost stories.
At least someone enjoys my wild side.
With a little luck, and a plan already forming in my determined brain, it won’t be long before Nick comes around to Kitty’s way of thinking.
Chapter 3
Nick
Fuck.
Trouble. This is nothing but trouble.
I should close the blinds.
Instead, I watch Melody and her friend run across the street, unable to take my eyes off my boss’s little sister.
With her thick blond hair and curves for days, she’s always beautiful, but in that dress…
Jesus, that dress…
“Don’t think about it,” I mutter beneath my breath, crossing to the door to flip the sign from “Open” to “Closed.”
It’s nearly midnight. Any customers who show up in the next twenty minutes will probably be drunk, anyway, and I won’t have time to draw anything up, let alone finish a piece. Better to close up and head for home before I give into the urge to follow Melody into The Horse and Rider and offer to buy her a drink.
I can imagine how that would play out—I’d buy her a beer and apologize for being an asshole, she’d forgive me because she’s a forgiving person, and we’d spend the rest of the night getting tipsy enough for me to forget all the reasons I shouldn’t get close to her. Close enough to brush her honeysuckle-scented hair over her shoulder, to gaze deep into those soulful brown eyes, to feel every tempting curve pressed against me until—
“Stop,” I reprimand myself in a louder, firmer voice. I’m pretty sure Melody is interested in being more than friends, but I’m not.
I can’t afford to be.
“Stop what? Who are you talking to, man?” John’s voice drifts from the door at the back of the shop, behind the heavy curtain.
Seconds later, John, in his typical uniform of faded jeans and a threadbare T-shirt with an obscure band logo on the front, eases into the main portion of the shop. He still hasn’t shaved the mangy beard he’s been growing for the past three days, and I’m not sure he ever brushes his curly reddish-brown hair. Still, John has a lovable, ruddy-cheeked Irish guy thing going, and women can’t seem to get enough of him.
His nonchalant grooming habits would make me feel ridiculous about spending fifteen minutes on my hair every morning if I didn’t have a special, loving relationship with my hair that is immune to ridicule or shame.
“No one. What’s up, brother?” I turn to greet him with a high five that turns into a hand clasp, relieved not to be alone with my thoughts anymore.
John is one of my oldest friends. We grew up drawing comics and naked elf girls together in our notebooks and have dreamed of opening our own tattoo studio since we were seventeen. We lost touch for a little while after high school but picked up right where we left off when I moved home from Atlanta.