Art stared down at the young woman standing outside the front of his shop. She was a slip of a thing, barely over five feet, and waifish, with big, dark, doe-eyes and silky brown hair. She made all six feet of him feel huge, and the suitcase at her feet dwarfed her.

The funny little squeak of a hello she gave only made his frown deepen. For some reason, she seemed to think he’d know who she was.

Was she lost?

“Can I help you?” he replied.

She seemed to have to force her words out. “Yes, my name’s Theresa Dawson.”

The woman spoke with an accent.

He cocked an eyebrow. “Have you got some ink booked?”

She didn’t look like the type of woman who had many tattoos. More conservative, in her white shirt and dark blue, boot-cut jeans and brown boots. He skimmed his gaze down her body and back up again. She might be small, but she was perfectly built, beautifully proportioned. She had a generous set of hips and tits on her small frame. He found his lips curving in a smile.

She frowned at his expression. “Um, no. I believe you’re expecting me.”

He was starting to get annoyed. “Clearly, I’m not. If you’re not getting tats, you’re in the wrong place, lady.”

“I don’t think so. This is 58 Wilson Street, right?”

He glanced at the door, as though he’d suddenly forgotten the address. “Yeah, that’s right.”

“My lawyer should have sent a letter. I inherited the shop recently.”

Art’s stomach sank as he stared at her in disbelief. Where was the middle-aged killjoy he’d assumed had inherited the place? “You?”

“Yes, me. I’m moving in upstairs.”

The accent suddenly sank in. American. Just like the new owner of the place.

“I thought you weren’t coming for another month yet,” he snapped.

“Yeah, I know. But things changed. That’s okay, isn’t it? I was led to believe the place has been unoccupied for some time now.”

“No one lives there, but it’s full of stuff. We’ve been using it for storage for the shop.” It was a little lie, but she’d never need to know any differently.

She gave a shrug. “That’s okay. I don’t take up much space. I’m sure we can work around it.”

Anger roiled in his stomach. Damned landlady. He didn’t want a woman living upstairs, and this particular one looked like she could blow away in a high wind. She certainly didn’t appear to be the type who’d be impressed with three guys hanging out in the shop, drinking and swearing, and listening to loud music. She’d want to get her beauty sleep, and would whine and moan, and generally make their lives a misery.

Trouble was, she had his balls in a vice. He didn’t want to have to move and he’d struggle to rent somewhere else. Landlords wanted nice, safe businesses to take over their properties. They didn’t want a bunch of tattoo artists who looked like they’d fuck and brand their favourite daughter, and then never speak to her again.

The woman, Theresa, glanced down at her suitcase and her lips twisted. He found himself staring at her mouth. They really were pretty lips—no lipstick, but a sheen of a balm of some kind, well proportioned, and with a perfect cupid’s bow. He wondered what that lip balm would taste like if he was to crush his mouth to hers.

He realised she’d said something, and blinked. “Sorry, what?”

Her head tilted to one side, another cute gesture. Damn it. He couldn’t let himself think of her as cute. She was about to royally fuck up his life.

“I asked if you’d mind carrying up my bag. It’s stupidly heavy. I literally have my life packed in this case.”

Art bit down on telling her to pick it up and piss off back to America. He had to be nice. He couldn’t allow his usual impulsive and hot-headed behaviour to screw this up.

“Err, yeah, I guess so,” he said instead, stepping forward and lifting the case. It was heavier than he’d expected, even for him, and he wondered how she’d managed to get it all the way from the States. She must be stronger than she looked.

“You haven’t told me your name,” she said.

“I’m Art. Art Fletcher.”

“The guy I’m leasing this place to?”

“Yeah, that’s right.”

He backed up, pushing the door of the shop open with his elbows. He held the door for her as she stepped past him and into the shop. A waft of her perfume floated over him as she passed by—something sweet and fruity, but with a citrus tang. He stepped away from the door, allowing it to swing shut behind him. The other guys lifted their heads from their work and clients, curious to see who the new arrival was and even more curious when they spotted the woman, and Art hauling the huge suitcase along behind her.

“Gonna be a bellboy now, Art?” Kane called out to him.

Rocco laughed. “Did you get into the wrong business?”

They were breaking his balls, and he shot them a scowl, which only made them laugh harder.

“This is Theresa Dawson,” he said, his voice containing a warning tone to the guys he employed. “She’s the new owner of the building.”

He at least took some pleasure in watching their faces drop.

“Ah, shit.” Rocco stood from the sketch he was doing and approached to shake her hand. “Good to meet you.”

Kane was inking someone and he lifted the tattoo needle and waved it in her direction. She gave an uncertain smile and lifted her hand in a wave back.

The only access to the upstairs flat was via the staircase at the back of the building. It had its own door at the top of the stairs, which she’d be able to lock, but they’d always left it open to allow them to come up and down whenever they wished. Of course, that was out of the question now. Art tried to picture in his head what sort of state they’d left the bathroom and the small kitchenette in. Three guys using one space where they hadn’t expected women to be—it wasn’t going to be pretty. He briefly debated telling her to wait down in the shop while he ran upstairs to clean up a bit, but then thought screw it. It was her own fault for not telling him she was coming early. If he’d known that, he would have made an effort... Perhaps.

He jerked his chin at the back of the building. “This way,” he growled.

Art carried the case out the back, Theresa hurrying along behind. He hauled it up the narrow stairwell, towards the front door of the flat, which stood open at the top of the stairs. He reached the top and stepped into the place the American was going to be calling her home, and dropped the suitcase on the floor.

The woman came to a halt beside him and looked around uneasily. “This is it?”

“What were you expecting—a palace? We don’t all live in castles here, you know?”

She narrowed her dark eyes at him. “I know that. My father was British. Plus, I’m not a complete idiot. I guess I’d just thought someone would have been in to clean up after my aunt passed. You did get the letter from the lawyer, didn’t you?”

“Yeah, I got it. Together with the suggested rent increase.”

He saw her bristle.

“That increase is more than fair. If anything, you should be paying more. You’ve been taking my aunt for a ride for the past few years.”

Every muscle in Art’s body tensed. “I’m guessing you weren’t exactly watching out for her, or you might have been aware of that and done something about it while she was still alive.”

Tension vibrated in the air between them, but he spotted hurt in her eyes at the mention of her aunt no longer being alive. Had he taken it too far? No. He hardened his heart. He didn’t need some chick stepping into his business, and this one hadn’t just stepped in, she’d thrown her entire body in and then rolled around in it. If he lay down with her, she’d tread all over him.

Theresa Dawson needed to know he wasn’t going to be a pushover.