Tattoo guy is leaning up against a wall covered in graffiti, a cigarette dangling from between his lips when I step outside the bar. He shoves his hands inside his front jean pockets, giving off that whole James Dean vibe. My pulse kicks up a notch.

I wrap my arms around myself and rub my shoulders to ward off a chill. “Bit of overkill in there, maybe?”

A ghost of a smile curls his lip up. “Kid’s not dead, right?”

“He’ll survive.”

He takes a drag off his dart and blows smoke into the chilly air. My eyes are transfixed on his mouth, the way his lips pucker to breathe in, exhale. It might be the sexist thing I’ve ever fucking seen.

Chalk that up to more ridiculousness, because cigarette smoke usually makes me gag.

Tattoo guy nudges his chin. “Where’s your jacket?”

“I’m not cold.”

His eyes land on my chest. “Oh yeah?”

I glance down, realizing that the third button on my blouse has popped open. Half my bra is exposed, and beneath the thin lace, my nipples are hard as pebbles. A smear of Austin’s blood cuts across the silk material on my left breast. Damn it. The blouse is thrift shop chic, but with Rubberneckers on the verge of bankruptcy, every item in my closet has a coveted, irreplaceable spot.

“Cold water will get that out,” he says, deadpan.

“Thanks.” Jesus. Now I’m taking laundry advice from a guy that just pummeled one of my employees. My stomach twists. How the hell am I going to explain this to Liz and Marnie? With our luck, Austin will go straight to Labor Relations —and that is the last thing we need.

Cool air snakes under my collar, rocking my core with another icy shiver.

Tattoo guy tosses what’s left of his smoke on the ground and stamps it out with the heel of his shoe. Not running shoes. Leather. Real, by the looks of it. The street lamp doesn’t offer enough light for me to make out the label, but I’d peg it as designer.

Which doesn’t quite fit with the rest of his casual attire. Fitted jeans, New York Giants ball cap, faded gray sweatshirt that looks like it’s seen better days. He shrugs out of the hoodie and hands it to me. I stare at him, unmoving. Tattoo guy has on a Metallica concert T-shirt—curious, but that isn’t what’s left me speechless.

The scorpion neck tattoo is just one mark on a body that is lean, toned, and peppered with ink. A Chinese Foo Dog perches on a Bogota surrounded in lush greenery, and red, orange, and yellow flowers. The vines twist from his wrist, up to his bicep, where snake eyes peer out from behind his elbow, reptilian scales rippling into his sleeve. On his left arm, a black panther crouches ready to pounce at its prey, claws bared, jaw unhinged. A blue waterfall cascades onto his forearm and pools at the base of his wrist. More jungle of varying shades of green fill in every available part of his flesh.

“Impressive, right?”

My mouth goes dry. “I can’t even imagine what those tattoos must have cost.”

Which is probably the lamest thing I can say, but when your livelihood is under direct attack by an asshole that clearly has money to burn, financial stuff just…blurts out. Ridiculous. I am.

Ridiculous.

“Probably more than it should have to be honest,” he says, with the hint of a smile that crinkles the corners of his eyes.

Funny, but seeing this guy nearly smile is way more exciting than watching one of those phony Wall Street types grin with their pearly whites every two seconds. It feels like an achievement to get an “almost” smile from sexy tattooed guy.

I peg him mid-twenties, but I’m shit with ages. He pushes the hoodie toward me again. “Here, put this on.”

I should go home, but my nerves are frayed, and for the first time in my life, I consider asking this guy for a smoke. My hands tremble as I reach for the sweatshirt instead, and I wrap it around my shoulders. I breathe in the scent of spiced cologne, so different from Austin’s cheap after-shave.

Tattoo guy shoves his hands back in his pockets, drawing my attention to his groin. I stare a little longer than I intend, imagining what’s behind that denim bulge. A lump forms at the back of my throat. I glance up, and realize I’ve been caught fantasizing. My face goes so hot, I’m sure steam rises from my cheeks.

Jesus, Eden, get a grip.

“I’m Lucas,” tattoo guy says, extending a hand.

My palm is slick with sweat. “Eden.”

Lucas nods. “Who was that jerk, anyway?”

I bite my lip, considering my response options. With Rubberneckers under public scrutiny, the less attention I draw to the company, the better. I opt for simplicity. “Obnoxious co-worker.”

Lucas snorts. “That’s the understatement of the century. If that clown worked for me, he’d be out on his ass.”

“Right now, he’s flat on his ass.” The low hum of guilt buzzes in my ears, a stark reminder that even though Austin was absolutely out of line tonight, stress has made our entire team—or what’s left of it—act of character. Which might explain why as I stand next to Lucas, my stomach flutters like there are a thousand butterflies inside it, chasing each other in tight circles. “But yeah, he’ll be gone tomorrow.”

The truth is, he might have been let go anyway, another casualty of the impending lawsuit. But now, he leaves without his dignity or a decent reference, which sucks. I swallow hard. We’re three employees down, already handicapped. Justified or not, losing Austin will further cripple us.

Lucas leans against the wall. “You need me to talk to your boss about what happened tonight?”

My lips twitch. “Worried he might not believe me otherwise?”

“It’s possible.” He shrugs, oblivious to my growing amusement about his assumptions. This kind of workplace misogyny has become old hat—most days it slides off me, but tonight I’m on edge and looking for a fight.

“I’ve got it under control.”

Lucas’s shoulders visibly slump, and I could swear I spot disappointment in his eyes. He’s clearly the kind of guy that gets a kick out of rescuing damsels in distress. I admit, it was fun at first, thrilling even, but now that the adrenaline has worn off, I’m not into the role play. So, I drive the point home with bite. “There won’t be a problem, because I am the boss.” Or, at least one of them.

Lucas blinks, obviously surprised, which just pisses me off more.

“You let your employees walk all over you like that?” He shakes his head in disgust. “Shitty business practice, if you ask me.”

“Which I didn’t,” I snap, full-on annoyed now. The guy might be hot as hell, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t fast-climbing the dick-o-meter. My pulse quickens.

Lucas holds up his hands in the universal symbol of surrender. “Hey lady, I was just trying to help.”

Lady? Jesus, that’s rich. I avert my gaze, easing some of the tension that’s pulled my chest into a knot. I’m wound up tighter than a cuckoo clock. “Bad assumption that I needed your help.”

“Clearly, I don’t know you,” he says.

Or what’s going on at my office. Obviously. If he did, or understood anything about me at all, he’d realize how off kilter I am. Confused because even though I’m vibrating with anger, another, less familiar, emotion ripples through my blood: liquid desire.

That realization rattles me, and I brace myself against the wall. I notice someone has happened to spray paint the word “Slut” on the wall near my head, thick lettering visible in the glow from a nearby streetlight.

The word is strangely appropriate, maybe, given the direction of my thoughts about this tattooed sexy beast.

Lucas takes a step forward and my chest tightens. I should retreat, run like hell, but he’s like a damn magnet, drawing me closer. I am powerless to the pull. He deftly weaves his arms around my waist and cradles me to him. “Or maybe I know you better than you think?”

A fresh lump grows in my throat, making it impossible to respond.

He tilts his head, mouth hovering so close to mine I can feel his hot breath against my lips. I wasn’t imagining it before—a definite electrical current runs between us, buzzing like a livewire. “We shouldn’t do this,” I hear myself whisper.

“Give me one reason why not.”

There are a million, but I can’t think, can barely breathe, because my heart is like a kick drum, furiously beating against my rib cage. The fluttering in my stomach crawls up my esophagus, pushing out a weak response. “It’s been a bad week.”

His lips press against mine, soft and slow.

My knees give way and I practically fall into him, succumbing to his mouth as it moves against mine. His tongue darts between my lips to pry them open. My body tingles to life.

He pulls me closer and for some inexplicable reason I stiffen. As if my mind and heart are suddenly engaged in a cruel game of tug-o-war, each equally matched in strength.

“Give into me, Eden. What have you got to lose?”

He’s right. There’s no harm in this. People do it all the time. Not me…ever. But some people, lots of people. And tonight, after everything that’s happened, I want—need—the escape. “Things have just been…tense…lately.”

Lucas burrows his hand in my hair and tilts my neck back. “I’m very good at relieving tension,” he says.

And I know that I’m going to find out if he’s all talk or not, one way or another.