Chapter Twelve
Bailey hunched over her book, her eyes tracing its words for the tenth time in as many minutes. Aside from a slight ache in her ankle, which she’d banged against the edge of Cash’s desk, she’d suffered little from her fall earlier in the day. The worst-bruised thing was her pride.
And, apparently, her concentration.
“Hey, you.”
She looked up to find Jay leaning against the front desk, his handsome face split into a grin. Great; she was supposed to be the receptionist, and she hadn’t noticed him standing a foot away from her damned face. Excellent. Amazing. Good work, Bailey.
“What are you reading?”
“Um…” She closed the book and held it out to him. “Sister Mine.” Not that the reading it part was going too well.
“Huh.” He turned it over to skim the blurb. “What’s it about?”
“Demi-God twins. One of them has magic, the other one doesn’t. The one without magic is being chased by a murderous spirit. And her sister is dating Jimi Hendrix’s guitar.” Jay didn’t bat an eyelid. “It’s set in Canada,” she added.
“Weird,” he said. He was studying the cover art with an expert eye. “This design is cool. It would work well for a tattoo.”
“Maybe.”
He handed the book back to her. “You don’t have any tatts, do you?”
“I might. Where you can’t see.”
“You don’t.” His voice was sure. “I can tell. You’re a virgin.” He waggled his eyebrows.
“Behave yourself,” she snorted. And then, warming to the topic: “I’ve been thinking about getting one for a while. I just don’t know what I’d get.”
“Your nan’s birthday,” he said dryly. “Universal starter tattoo.”
She chuckled. “Not exactly what I had in mind. I’d like to lose my virginity with more of a bang.”
And of course, at the worst possible moment, Cash appeared. He marched into the room with a scowl twisting the harsh lines of his face, the ink on his forearms shifting as he clenched his fists.
“What the hell are you two talking about?” He demanded.
Oh, crap. Bailey felt her cheeks heat—but Jay just slid an amused grin her way before turning lazily to face his boss. “Nothin’,” he drawled.
“Jay,” Cash said. His voice was rough as a mountaintop, hard as stone. Bailey thought she heard a thread of warning there—only that couldn’t be right. Could it?
The men stared each other down like cowboys before a duel. The tension ratcheted up with each breath of silence. And then, just as Bailey’s thoughts veered from confusion to concern, Jay broke out into laughter.
“Ah, come on man!” He cried, reaching forward to slap Cash on the shoulder. “I’m just fucking with you.” Cash’s face remained impassive, his broad frame unmoving. And yet, beneath his utter stillness, Bailey caught the impression of a rabid dog straining at the leash.
But Jay seemed blissfully unaware. He sauntered off into the studio, chuckling to himself, shaking his head. In the silence that remained, Bailey forced herself to meet Cash’s eyes. He watched her like a hawk watches a mouse.
“We were talking about tattoos,” she said, finally.
He shrugged those huge shoulders. “None of my business what you’re talking about.” He said gruffly. But she felt an urgent need to explain that… Well…
“I’m not a virgin.”
He stared blankly.
“I’m, y’know—a tattoo virgin.” She stretched her face into an awkward grin. “Haha!”
Cash didn’t laugh. “I know that,” he said.
“You do?”
“Of course.” He finally moved, walking across the shop to look out of the high windows and into the street. His back to her, he continued. “Not your style.”
She spluttered. “You don’t know my style.”
“Sure I do.”
“No you don’t,” she insisted. And then, reckless indignation giving her that final push, she blurted out, “Actually, I want a tattoo.”
He turned to look at her, arching a brow, and she fought the urge to squirm under the intensity of his gaze. “Do you, now?”
“Yes,” she said firmly. Maybe. Wait, no, definitely. Yeah. The last of her reservations dealt with, Bailey nodded so hard that her glasses slipped down her nose. Blushing, she nudged them back up into place.
Cash wondered over to the desk with an ease that didn’t quite match the fire burning in his eyes. When he rested his hands against the black wood, close enough to touch, she bit her lip. When he leaned forward, his long hair casting a shadow across her face, his lips close enough to bring back last night’s awkward—brilliant, beautiful, magical—kiss, she gulped.
But she refused to look away.
“I didn’t think tattoos were your thing,” he said slowly.
She arched a brow. “I work here, don’t I?”
“Not exactly through choice.”
“If I didn’t want to be here, I wouldn’t be,” she said.
“Tattoos aren’t just about the thrill,” he went on. “Body mods are a pretty fucking heavy commitment.”
She gave his inked-up forearms a significant glance. “How ironic.”
He inhaled sharply. A muscle leapt in his jaw, and she knew her hit had landed. Good.
But then, through gritted teeth, he fought back. “Whatever you might think of me, tattoos are my life. I’ve been working to succeed in this industry since I was a teenager, and every piece of art on my body means something to me. Might be significant; might just be the memory of a good day. It’s enough, because I want them. Always. When times change, and even when I change, I want them.”
Bailey stared, more than a little shocked by that speech, and he stared back, as though he couldn’t believe he’d even said the words. As though he hadn’t meant to. As though his passion had leapt ahead of his reason.
That seemed to happen to him a lot.
She liked it.
“Alright,” she murmured. “I understand. But…I want one. I do. I want to—to commit to myself. For better or for worse.” She shrugged. “Does that make sense?”
He paused, as if to let the words ruminate. And then, finally, he relented. “Yeah. That does make sense.”
For some twisted reason, his approval sent a wave of satisfaction through her. He straightened up, turning to leave—but then he added, “I’ll do it.”
Bailey frowned. “What?”
“Your tattoo. I’ll do it.”
“Oh, no,” she spluttered. “That’s not what I meant. I just—wanted your advice. You can’t do it. You’re booked.”
“Don’t worry about that,” he said, as though his waiting list wasn’t months long.
“But—”
“Stay after closing tonight, okay? We’ll have a little consultation.”
“But—but I don’t know what I want!”
“That’s what the consultation’s for.”
“I can’t afford you!”
He frowned. “Bailey. Don’t be ridiculous.”
“But—”
“After closing.” And then he left.
Bailey huffed out her frustration, muttering her outrage to the empty room. The audacity of that man. He was so bloody high-handed it beggared belief.
So why was she fighting a smile?