Starlight falls over the concrete. It mixes with the soft yellow glow of the streetlights. Then the neon signs of the shops across the street.

It's a beautiful night. Crisp. Clear. Cool.

I pull my arms over my chest. Rub my palms against my triceps. We're getting into fall now. It's still warm all day—it's warm all day, all year—but the nights demand sweaters.

Or maybe tall, broad men with safe arms and long embraces.

The stoplight turns green. The walk sign flashes.

My wedges click against the concrete as I follow Hunter into the street.

With the two inches of lift, I'm eye to eye with him.

Or more like eye to back of head. With him in front of me.

God, he walks fast.

I hustle to catch up with him. Exhale slowly to hide my straining breath.

It's not just moving quickly.

It's him.

He makes me fluttery.

Nervous.

Happy.

Even when I want to slap him for his bullshit, I want to stick around.

The back of my hand brushes his.

It's nothing. Barely a touch. But it still sends warmth straight to my stomach.

"You cold?" He steps onto the sidewalk.

I swallow hard. "A little." Not so much with him this close. Those flutters take over. Make it impossible to notice the goose bumps spreading over my arms.

He's just…

He's annoying and bossy and over-protective.

He likes action shows with inexplicable plots, can't chop vegetables to save his life, and steals my chocolate at an alarming rate.

But I still want him around.

I like him.

More even.

I don't love him yet—I've never even considered loving someone—but this is more than like.

There must be something in between.

Some he drives me out of my mind, his lips are so kissable, his trust is so tantalizing.

His smile makes me think of cheesy pop songs.

His hurt cuts right to my heart.

I stop breathing when I think about him.

"Here." He slides his leather jacket off his shoulders. Drapes it over mine. "Better?"

"Yeah. Thanks." I bring my hands to the lapel to hold the jacket to my chest. It's too much for the weather, but I still want it closer.

It smells like him.

And it's…

It's so sweet and normal and boyfriend, Hunter offering me his leather jacket.

"What is it you want to know?" He turns right. Toward the shop.

"Everything."

"You have me for an hour." His footsteps are strong. Steady. "Get specific."

"I watched three episodes of Daredevil."

"By choice."

I shake my head.

He turns to me and raises a brow.

His blue eyes meet mine.

They fill with that spark he gets when he's teasing me.

When he smiles.

His smile is too rare.

I want more of it.

I want it every minute of every day.

"No." I try to make my voice even, but it's not. I'm too light. Too airy. Too intoxicated. "I had to be there. To help you understand all the adult themes."

"Did you?"

I nod. "All those guys who died? That's traumatizing."

"Hate to break it to you, Em, but I've read comics since I was a kid. Henchmen are always dying." He fishes his keys from his pocket, unlocks the door to Inked Hearts, pulls it open, motions after you.

I nod a thanks and step inside. It's weird, being here alone. Sometimes, I open the store, but I never manage to arrive first. One of the guys is always here prepping for an appointment.

They're dedicated.

Even Walker and Dean. They act like they're easy, breezy surfer boys—well, with Dean it's more obnoxious, trouble-making surfer boy—but they're devoted to their craft.

Moving closer to that, learning the skills I need to bring my boutique to life—fuck, it makes me dizzy.

I shrug the jacket off my shoulders and lay it on the counter.

Hunter clicks the door locked behind us. His footsteps fill the room as he moves forward. "Em?"

"Yeah?" I press my palms into the black plastic. My nails are too chipped. It's time to change the purple polish to something else. Something that feels right. I pick a color that suits my mood.

Right now… this is red. A deep, crimson red, like the rose tattooed to Hunter's hip.

Ahem.

Not that he…

I'm not…

God, I so am.

"You decide where you want to focus?" he asks.

"You're the teacher."

He nods.

I force myself to look him in the eyes. "Give me some options."

"Fair." His soft lips curl into a half-smile. "You manage the schedule?"

I nod.

"And the social media?"

"Yeah."

"You ever see the books?"

"Sometimes. Ryan is secretive about it."

Hunter chuckles. "He's secretive about everything."

"Those are strong words for you."

"Oh?"

I nod. "I still don't know why you're crashing at my brother's place."

"Ran out of cash."

"Because…"

"Because I spent it."

"Really? Is that how money works?"

He moves around the counter. Turns on the computer. Types his login.

"You don't seem like the type of guy who can't balance his checkbook."

"Shit. Do I really seem like I use a checkbook?"

My lips curl into a smile. It's the perfect response. And it's so Hunter. Defensive. But funny too. "Honestly, Hunter, if you ran out of cash because of stupidity, I'd like to cancel this lesson."

"Is that a threat?"

"Yeah."

"Not your best work."

It's not. He's doing this as a favor to me, not the other way around. "Still. If you're showing me the books."

"Not these books." He motions to the spot next to him. "I don't have access."

"Really?"

"You thought I would?"

"I guess you're still a guest." I move around the counter. Until I'm three feet from him. Then two. "Did you think about Ryan's offer?"

"Yeah."

"If you're broke, seems like a good deal."

He rolls his shoulders back. "I'm gonna take it. Just have to figure out some other shit first."

Like whatever it is that used up all his money.

And got him to leave his last job.

Or maybe he got fired.

I couldn't really tell from the reaction I got when I called Blacklist Tattoo.

But then if someone called here for dirt, I'd purposely lead them astray.

I can gossip about my friends all I want. But if someone else starts shit, they're going down.

"I did some stupid shit," Hunter says. "Made some bad decisions. That's how I ended up broke."

"Now?"

"Not exactly rolling in it."

"But…"

"I'll get there." His fingers brush my wrist. "You know how much I make?"

"Not exactly."

"Explain how my salary works." His eyes meet mine. They bore into mine. They demand something. Something that isn't educational.

But I do need to learn this. "You don't get a salary."

He nods.

"You basically rent the chair here. Like at a hair salon. You charge clients something within the shop's rates and pay the shop a percentage. Then you get tips. Well, minus the percent I get."

"What did I make this week?" He turns the screen to me.

It's his records.

I guess he has access to those.

I scan them carefully. Add the numbers in my head. Get a rough approximate. "Shit, really?"

"Really…?"

It's more than I expected. A lot more. I pull out my cell, check my math with the calculator, relay the number to Hunter.

He nods. "So the shop?"

I do the math. Show him the results.

He nods.

"How many hours did I work last week?"

I check the time sheet. Reach for something to write with. "This is too much to keep in my head."

"Fair." He grabs the sharpie we keep on the counter. His fingers brush mine as he hands it over.

It's barely a touch, but it still makes my stomach flutter.

He's so close.

And he smells so good.

I barely manage to hold my poker face. "Paper."

He bends, grabs a spare sketchbook from beneath the counter.

I scribble a note about Hunter's hours.

"Let's figure out how much the shop made." He points to the computer. "Assume all the other guys made the same for every hour they worked."

I nod.

"You know the schedule. Do the math."

Okay, that's simple. How much they made per hour, times the shop's commission percentage, times hours worked. But that info is on my account, not his. I motion to the computer. "I need that."

He nods.

His body brushes mine as he steps aside.

Then mine brushes his as I take my place.

There's barely any space here.

But he's still too far away.

My fingers fumble over the keyboard. It's impossible to focus. To do this math.

He's so close.

So there.

So attentive.

Deep breath. Slow exhale.

I run through the calculations twice. "There." I show Hunter the number.

He nods. "How much is that a month?"

"There are four weeks and two days in most months."

He motions go ahead.

I do the math. "Are you sure you're not an algebra tutor?"

"Is that your kink?"

My cheeks flush. "What?"

"I've got my daddy thing—"

"You don't really."

"You're all about teacher/student."

"No, I…" I swallow hard. Fuck, it's weird feeling awkward with a guy. I'm usually good at flirting. I'm usually smooth. But between the last three months and all the fluttering in my stomach… "Yeah. I want my professor to bend me over and spank me with a ruler."

"Fuck." He doesn't sell it as teasing. His pupils dilate. His tongue slides over his lip.

"I… Uh…"

He stares back at me.

I stare back at him.

What the hell are we doing here again?

We shouldn't be talking. Or working. Or thinking.

We should be getting naked.

Touching.

Making each other come.

I want to see him, feel him, touch him, taste him.

Not just because he's hot.

Or because I want to prove I can do this.

Because he's Hunter.

Because he loves bad action TV. Because he can't chop to save his life. Because he's bossy and overbearing and incredibly sweet.

"I… Uh…"

"You finish the math?" His fingers brush my wrist.

"Yeah. Umm…" I force myself to concentrate. Do the calculation. "This right?"

He moves closer as he checks.

He nods.

I shudder.

He stays there—right there—as he takes me through an expense report.

His fingers brush my hip.

My neck.

The small of my back.

Then his body is behind mine.

And his breath is warning my ear. "How are we doing?"

Please touch me. Forget about the shop. Forget about my brother. Forget how badly you need this job.

Erase everything else.

"Good." My heart thuds against my chest.

I'm not used to wanting someone.

For three months I haven't.

Hell, since I jumped up to five foot seven (at fourteen; I'm five eleven now) and developed breasts (also at fourteen, and, well, they aren't much bigger now), I've been the one making boys nervous.

But Hunter isn't a boy.

He's a man.

And he's practically untouchable.

"At the end of the year, everyone is taking home a nice profit. Even after the salary they pay themselves." I force myself to look him in the eyes. "But, if you think about it, we could do a lot better."

"Yeah?"

"We have three suites, plus the one in back. With the shop hours, we could have artists here from ten to seven, all day, every day. We could stay open later even. You won't have a client every hour. But we could add shifts. Fill the chairs more. Hire a few artists. More if we moved stuff around."

"Ryan won't like that."

"He might. He… he does want to hire you."

"You should pitch it to him."

"Maybe." I bite my lip. I want to feel like an important part of the team. But no one sees me that way. "He won't listen."

"Make him."

"Easier said than done."

"Maybe. But you're tough."

I turn toward Hunter. "He's like you. No one can make him do anything."

"How do you know?"

"About you?"

He nods.

"We've been arguing nonstop."

"I've done your bidding."

"Only when you want to. And how you want to. You… you basically tricked me into acing my test."

"Offered you a deal."

"If anything, I've done your bidding."

He shakes his head.

"Okay, I haven't. I… no one makes me do anything either." Not even myself.

I bite my lip. Press my palms into my thighs.

I want to touch him. He's right there. And he's staring at me with all this pride.

God, it's intoxicating.

His fingers brush the back of my hand. My forearm. My shoulder. "Like what?"

"Hunter." I swallow hard.

His hand cups my cheek.

My eyelids flutter together. "Why are you so over-protective? You barely know me."

"I know you."

"A little."

"Because you don't let me in."

"You don't either."

He moves closer. "I want to know you, Em. I want in your head."

"I want that too." I lean into his touch. Soak up the softness of it. The hardness of his calloused fingertips.

He brushes a stray hair behind my ear.

He stares down at me.

My eyelids flutter closed.

I rise to my tiptoes.

Press my lips to his.

It's soft. A hint of a kiss.

Then it's more.

His lips close around my bottom lip.

His fingers skim my jawline.

His need pours into me.

There's so much neither one of us has said.

So much we want to say.

My hands go to his hips.

His go to my back.

He pulls my body into his.

But it's only for a moment.

Then his hands are gone.

And he's pulling away.

Staring dumbstruck.

Fuck. That's bad. "I…" What the hell can I say when he's staring like that?

For a moment, we're in limbo.

Then he blinks, and everything clicks into place.

"Em…"

It's everything he has to say.

"You're amazing, but—"

"Don't."

"It's not you."

"Seriously, Hunter. Don't." I take a step backward, but there's nowhere to go. I'm pressed against the counter.

I try to slide out of the space.

His fingers curl around my wrist.

For a moment, he holds me tightly.

What the hell does he think he's doing?

He doesn't get to say you're amazing, but.

Fuck him for that.

I don't care what his reason is.

"Em…" He releases me. "It's not you."

"Whatever." My cheeks flame. Fuck him.

He doesn't get to flirt and help me and touch me and then turn around and say we can't.

"I'm going home." I push past him. Move around the counter. Grab my purse. Leave his jacket.

"I'm not a good guy."

"How many times do I have to say 'don't'?"

He opens his mouth to speak.

But I don't stay to listen.

I move to the door.

Outside.

The air is cold. It nips at my cheeks, chest, chin.

Without his jacket, it's freezing.

Or maybe that's reality dawning on me.

I'm amazing, but I'm not as important as his bullshit reasons.