His eyebrows tip up, and his lips part like he’s about to say something.
I shake my head minutely. Not talking about this either.
He scratches the stubbled skin of his jaw but nods in answer to my unasked plea. “Right now, I’m covering a friend of mine while he’s on paternity leave. After that, who knows.”
“Taking over as resident rocker, huh?” I brush my bangs from my eyes, relieved that he knows how to take a hint.
And there it is. His lips curve, revealing those straight white teeth. “No. Not quite. I’ve taken over his tattoo parlor while he’s off being Papi.”
“That would have been my second guess, for sure.” If it were possible that a guy was put on this earth to distract me this summer, it’s this guy. I’m almost tempted to ask him if Flynn somehow magicked him here from beyond the grave. I don’t, though. Because that would be weird. Instead, I push my half-finished drink across the table and lean my elbows in its place. He could be just the person I’ve been looking for—in more ways than one. “So ... you any good?”
His chuckle is deep, and rough, and self-assured enough to make my lady bits positive that he’s the one to bring the new tattoo idea I’ve been pondering to life. “I’m good.”
“In that case, I’d like to make an appointment. The rooms are private, right?”
“What are you after?” He rests his folded arms on the table and leans forward, closing the distance between our faces, that semi-smirk firmly back in place.
And just like that, the murdering of one of my favorite Kings of Leon songs taking place on stage is muffled out beneath the thump, thump of my pulse. His musky deliciousness fills my nostrils. Sandalwood and sexy. My kind of mix.
“What you got?” I hold his stare and the heat of connection it brings with it. “Show me.”
“What, here?” His lips twitch, and his eyes narrow, but he reaches into his back pocket and pulls out his cell. “Why a private room? You a screamer?”
A giggle bursts from my mouth, surprising the shit out of us both. I’m not a giggler. And I’m definitely not a screamer ... when I get tattoos, I mean. I just about manage to calm my giggle into more of an amused chuckle and shake my head. “Might be with this one. It’s a doozy.”
I study his face while he scrolls.
I like the smile lines around his mouth, and the crinkles around his eyes. They make him look like he’s in a good mood even when he’s not smiling. My gaze lowers to where his fingers are wrapped around his black-cased phone, then down to the art on his forearms. The lines are beautifully done. Almost as good as ... I zone in on one tiny detail on the last line of his geometric style sleeve.
Can’t be. I squint and tip forward on my chair, tilting my head to make it out clearer. The world may be small, but it can’t possibly be that small. I reach for the hand that belongs to the arm in question and tug it over the table to get a close-up look. Yup. It’s there.
I glance up into his bemused face. “A Lionel Jax?”
He nods warily, his eyebrows lowering. “How do you know?”
“Because this—” I stretch my arm out across the table to show him the intricate paisley designs that cover from my shoulder to half-way down my left forearm, then twist it so he can see the, you’d-only-find-it-if-you-knew-to-look-for-it red LG incorporated into the millimeter thick band that finishes my tattoo.
Lionel Jax is one of the best in the business. Notorious for never attending conventions or working in any shop other than his own. I stumbled upon him by accident. His shop happens to be ten minutes south of where I’ve been staying this last year in Baltimore.
And that would mean that it’s possible that this man, this sexy, right-up-my-alley man has been just ten minutes away from me at some point. I scan from the top of his lean-muscled bicep to his corded forearm. And more than once by the looks of it.
“How did you find out where his shop is?” I lean in even closer, until our noses are mere centimeters apart. “I just wandered in off the street. I usually get my dad’s guy to do mine, but I heard great things about his place.”
His warm thumb brushes over the inside of my wrist. My eyes widen. I’d completely forgotten I still had a hold of his hand. I’d be lying if I said it didn’t feel all kinds of good.
He doesn’t pull back. And neither do I.
A warm flush heats my chest and flares goose-pimples over my skin. Looks like things are back on track to distraction-ville. Yep.
“The tattoo world’s a small one.” His face stays perfectly neutral. There’s way more to it than that.
“I live like ten minutes from there.” I narrow my eyes. “But for you? Baltimore’s hella far to travel for a tattoo.”
He twists his hand around until his fingers link through mine. “I suppose you could say I’m half from there. My dad is.” He smiles again, but it goes nowhere near his eye crinkles. “Spent a few years there when I was younger learning my trade.”
My head tilts to the side. I know vague, I-don’t-wanna-talk-about-it answers when I hear them. I’m the queen of vague, I-don’t-wanna-talk-about it answers. But that thing he’s doing with his thumb on the inside of my wrist and the easy intimacy of the way he’s holding my hand is more than enough to pull my prying thoughts back into line. “You as good as Lionel Jax?” I nod to the forgotten cellphone in his hand.
“Decide for yourself.” He hands me the cell, but the dimple in his cheek screams that he’s someone who has zero doubts when it comes to knowing his own worth.
It’s an attractive quality.
I bite my lip to halt my grin and swipe through the photos.
He’s good. I pause on a delicate black and grey chandelier tattoo. Really good. His line work is perfect, and don’t even get me started on his shading.
I’m officially in. This man is my exact flavor of distraction.
And he’ll be starting tonight if I have anything to do with it.
.