Chapter 5

When J.T. dropped her off at her place, Hope had tried to leave the car and him behind. But he’d been raised better than that. He walked her inside her building to her apartment, waited for her to unlock the door, then watched as she stepped inside.

She turned, her hand on the doorknob. “Thanks for a fun night.”

That she meant it made him want to shout with joy. Stupid reaction.

“Yeah, sure. No problem.” He studied her, aware she watched him as well.

The tension between them grew, each not moving, looking into the other’s eyes. He stepped closer, and she tensed, her breathing loud.

Not smart, but screw it. He ran a finger down her silky cheek. “I had fun tonight. You’re okay, Hope Donnigan.”

She gave a slow smile. “So are you, J.T. Webster.” Her smiled faded when his finger grazed her lower lip.

“Maybe we should go out again. We didn’t share too many personal details. I’ll probably fold if your mom grills me too hard.”

She nodded. “Yeah, that’s true. We should figure things out.”

Surprised she’d agreed without any persuading, he waited for her to suggest a time and place.

“Does Friday work for you? We could go bowling and talk over strikes and spares.” She paused. “Can you swing by to pick me up here? Would that be okay, us driving together?”

Her place, then in the close confines of his car, in private. Together. Cinching the straps of attraction even tighter. No way in hell was he that stupid. “Sure. It’s a date.”

* * *

Two days later, J.T. tried to lose himself in his art, drawing a siren that started taking on familiar features as thoughts of Hope continued to intrude on his day. In just four more hours, he’d be sitting at the bowling alley, staring at her ass, and trying to act like the thought of them having sex had never entered his mind.

He sighed. I am such a moron.

The date at Ray’s couldn’t have been better. Hope had not only proven to be bloodthirsty under that veneer of blond, ladylike manners, she’d also been funny and a hell of a darts player.

They’d paired up and taken Sam for twenty bucks, Lou for ten. Heller, fortunately, had bowed out, too busy mooning over Rena. Though the Websters kept a protective eye on Rena, no one had a problem with Heller wanting to court her. J.T.’s dad thought it amusing that the brawny German was getting nowhere fast with the girl. Del didn’t mind, and J.T. had never considered Heller a threat. The poor bastard was head over heels for her, and Rena refused to let him into her soft little heart.

A lot like how Hope was refusing to let J.T. into hers. No, but she’d let him into her apartment later tonight. In just three hours and fifty-nine minutes. No, fifty-eight minutes.

He sighed again, baffled at his reaction to the woman. Shit. He felt butterflies in his stomach, his nerves of steel more like nerves of putty at the thought of her soft skin, that golden hair, her ripe, red lips… J.T. breathed in deeply and let it go, needing any release he could get.

“Swear to God, you need an inhaler or something. What the fuck, man?” Vargas glared at him from across the room at his station. While cleaning up after his last client, the cranky tattoo artist gave J.T. his infamous death glare.

Unlike Grim, who looked like a human version of the Grim Reaper, or Suke, who screamed tough chick at a glance, Vargas looked almost normal. He had the requisite sleeves of tattoos and artwork creeping up his neck. Sandy hair cut conservatively short, jeans, a buttoned-up short-sleeved shirt, and a pricey watch made the guy seem more yuppie than grunge.

Until he spoke. Then the attitude came pouring out. A basket case of nerves and emotion Vargas churned into artistic talent. The guy specialized in blacks and grays, and he had a waiting list almost as long as J.T.’s.

“Problem, V?”

“You. You’re my problem. What’s with all the sighing? It’s getting on my nerves.”

J.T. grinned. “Nicotine patches not working anymore?”

“Hell. I quit using those two weeks ago. Thanks for noticing.”

Daisy walked in, saw Vargas steaming, and walked back out.

“So if nicotine’s not your problem, what’s up your ass, then?” J.T. looked at his buddy and noticed the absence of candy wrappers. “Ah, so no sugar?”

“Bad enough I’m off smoking.” Vargas ran his hand through his hair, causing sections to stand on end. “Marci told me I had to quit with the candy,” he snarled. “She’s on a fucking diet.”

Grim left his station to lean against J.T.’s partition.

“What the hell are you looking at?” Vargas barked.

Grim blinked, looked to J.T., who shrugged, then wisely walked away. Despite having both height and brawn over the lanky Vargas, Grim knew better than to taunt the guy. Vargas fought dirty, had a mouth that didn’t quit, and possessed a seriously scary knife collection.

“So because Marci’s all set on losing an extra ten pounds—because her girlfriend’s getting married and insisted Marci be her maid of honor—I’m suffering.”

J.T. stifled a grin. “Sorry, man.”

“No, you’re not. I can see you trying not to laugh at my misery.” Vargas moaned. “I miss my Snickers.”

“So do we,” Grim said from his station.

Vargas snapped back, then moved in Grim’s direction to continue the fight.

J.T. chuckled, pleased to see the team working together—just another day at the office. Vargas pissed because he continued to abstain from the pleasures in life. Grim making smart-ass remarks. Daisy hiding in the front while J.T. puttered with new designs.

Well, he should have been puttering. Instead he was consumed with Hope Donnigan. He probably would have been done with her if she’d been what he expected. A pretty blond who looked down her nose at the hardworking stiffs at Ray’s. Instead, she’d proven how truly nice she was, and she’d sparkled with enthusiasm. She’d loved it there, hanging with the guys, messing with Trish, talking to him.

He knew he’d disappointed her by not having a hard prison record. His nonexistent kids and relatively low drama when it came to relationships—Trish notwithstanding—hadn’t done him any favors either. But Hope had made allowances for his non-problematic upbringing.

Then again, he hadn’t told her the whole of it, not wanting to scare her off before… Before what?

He wished he knew what the hell he was doing with her. He liked Hope a lot. Lusted after her, no question. And he wanted to help her out with her mom, because he could tell that underneath her jokes, her strained relationship with her mother bothered her.

Friends.

Yeah, he and Hope were and would be friends. Period. He just wished he could convince his body of that fact. And his stupid heart. Because it raced like crazy at just the thought of her. His dick spiked any time she entered the same room. And his appetite and concentration were all out of whack.

Making a follow-up date hadn’t been smart, but he’d done it all the same. What really surprised him was that she’d accepted. She seemed to have shocked herself with her hasty agreement, but they’d both played it off as though another date meant nothing.

“Because it doesn’t,” he said under his breath, then readied for his client arriving in an hour. No harm in being prepared early. He needed to get his head in the game. Clients came first. Tattoos should be permanent works of art and skill, not a permanent mistake.

“Yeah, yeah, Eddie. I remember,” he said to himself, repeating the words of his mentor.

Vargas approached him, apparently done schooling Grim. “Talking to yourself. Yeah, man, you need help.”

“If I give you a Twix, will you shut up?”

Vargas held out a hand.

J.T. gave him the last of his precious stash.

They had peace for all of twenty minutes. Then Suke showed up bitching about the crappy VW bug in her parking space, which they all knew belonged to Vargas. And another argument heated up. J.T. and Grim watched from the sidelines until their next clients showed.

The moment the door chimed, the dispute ceased as if it had never existed. Suke and Vargas got back to work. Grim and J.T. penciled a few designs.

J.T. glanced at the clock and knew he had it bad. Because now there were two hours and thirty-seven minutes left. And it felt like forever. Even after his client showed.

* * *

Hope waited nervously, wishing she hadn’t suggested bowling, of all things. Such a lame second date—that wasn’t a date. Her parents had been in a bowling league years ago, and they’d always claimed it was so much fun. She didn’t know why she’d mentioned it.

It was safe, though. How much trouble could Hope get into with the man in a public place surrounded by ugly shoes, bowling balls, and waxed lanes?

She’d called the bowling alley to verify their hours, only to find out they were closed for renovations. Great. So she called her backup place and learned it was a league night and closed to individuals.

“Now what?” She ran a hand over her hair, annoyed that she’d brushed it a bazillion times so it shone. That she’d taken care with her makeup, striving to look fresh while carefully applying just the right amounts of mascara, eyeliner, and blush. Her jeans cupped her butt and made her legs look longer than they were. And her T-shirt showed off her waist without clinging to her chest too much.

That she’d so carefully chosen what to wear should have set off alarm bells. Why did she give a fig what J.T. thought of her? He knew what she looked like.

Yet she didn’t want to look less than her best for this date that wasn’t a date.

For all that J.T. acted mellow and pleasant, she’d seen his rougher edges, how fast and easily he’d taken down that jerk at Ray’s. How intense he could get when staring into her eyes. Handsome and aware of the fact, J.T. fascinated her. Even more so now that she knew he could turn on that meanness she’d sensed but had never seen until a few days ago.

She had to don some semblance of metaphorical armor, even if it was tied to her clothing.

Well, at least she wouldn’t be wearing ugly shoes tonight. What to do instead?

She should have called the alley before. But—

A knock at the door interrupted her train of thought.

She took a deep breath, focused to stop being so darned nervous, and looked through the peephole to confirm his identity. She hadn’t gotten more flowers since Tuesday, and since J.T. hadn’t mentioned them, she was pretty sure he hadn’t sent them. But she couldn’t shake the feeling there was something off about receiving them.

Seeing J.T. standing outside, she opened the door, glad she’d taken care with her appearance. The lady-killer devastated in black jeans and a collared shirt. The top two buttons of his dark-blue shirt were left unbuttoned, revealing a tempting breadth of muscle and a hint of chest hair.

Mr. Manly. Figured he’d hit all her buttons. Geez.

Hope was seriously irked that she couldn’t find one thing not to like about his appearance.

“Ah, you going to stare me to death or what?” he asked with a smirk, as if he knew why she was annoyed. “Kidding. You look irritated. Been talking to your mom?”

“Um, no. I haven’t talked to her since brunch on Sunday.” She wished his biceps weren’t so thick, his chest so broad. Some women liked legs and butts. Hope was a sucker for muscular arms. A solid upper body flipped her switch, big time. Unfortunately, J.T. had it all.

Hell. Even his smirks turned her on. So pathetic.

“You ready to go?” He patted his chest. “You’ll note I’ve got my bowling shirt on. I’m ready for some strikes.”

“That’s not a bowling shirt. That’s a regular collared shirt.”

“Hey, it counts.” When she made no move to leave her apartment, he groaned. “Okay, out with it. What’s wrong?”

“We can’t bowl tonight.”

He frowned.

“A’s is closed for renovations, and the Bowl-a-Rama has league night.”

“Bummer. I was looking forward to trouncing you.”

She had an idea. It wasn’t a great plan, but they did need to get their ducks in a row before dinner with Linda. “Why don’t we stay here? We can play a board game or something and take notes on each other.”

“So, like, a study session with games and beer? And food? You do have food, right? I can’t study without food.”

“Were you like this in college?”

“Didn’t go to college. Just high school. Well, and tattoo school, but I don’t think that counts.”

“There’s a school for tattooing?” She hadn’t known that.

“So can I come in? Or did you want to frisk me first, to make sure I’m not carrying?” he taunted.

Her ideas of frisking wouldn’t help them remain platonic friends. Because she totally knew what he was packing. She’d felt it when they’d kissed and—“Come in.” Not wanting to go down that particular memory lane, she hurriedly stepped back from the door and forced herself not to look below his neck for at least thirty seconds. He entered, and she locked up behind him.

“Scared you, didn’t I? Relax, Blondie. I’m harmless.”

She followed him down the short hallway into the living room. “Yeah, right. I saw what you did to that guy at Ray’s.”

“Well, mostly harmless. And to answer your question, yes, there’s such a thing as tattoo school.”

“Really?”

“Yep. There are different ones all over the country. Some are pretty serious, and some are a waste of time. The one I went to was pretty deep into biology and art classes. So you had to be able to draw more than a stick figure to graduate.” He looked around and nodded.

“Does it pass muster?”

“It’s you.” He pointed to the tidy space of her living room. “Everything is stacked and organized. Your knickknacks all arranged in rows on your bookshelf there tell me you like control. I bet there’s no dust either.” He wiped a finger over a shelf, and it came back clean. “Oh yeah, you have a neat fetish going on.”

She frowned.

Before she could say anything, he held that clean finger up to silence her. “Now hold on. I’m not criticizing you. I have a neat home too. Well, it’s organized. A little dusty, though.” He continued to move around, taking in her leather sofa and accent chair with an ottoman. She had pillows to add color, in blues, yellows, and orange tones.

Hope admitted she had a bit of clutter, but she kept it neat. She collected doodads from the places she visited. A set of plastic, oversize dice from Vegas. A small wooden bear sculpture from Portland. Some funky maracas from her one brief family trip to Mexico years ago, when she’d been a teenager. Mostly pottery or sketches and paintings from small towns in the Pacific Northwest.

“Do you like to travel?” she asked him.

“When I have the time. I moved around a lot back in my early twenties. Saw the country, tried to avoid jail and my many baby mamas.”

“J.T.”

He laughed. “Sorry, couldn’t help it. Yeah, I traveled. But honestly, I missed home. I like Seattle. My dad and sister are here, and now I have a business that’s all mine. I’m not looking to take off for Aruba anytime soon.” He gave her a once-over that unnerved her because she liked the attention. Too much. “Although if you promised to model a few bikinis, I’d make the trip.”

“Ha ha.” She ignored her racing pulse. “Well, when you’re done psychoanalyzing me through my furniture—”

“What? No way. Just because you’re organized doesn’t mean you’re anal-retentive…or have mommy issues or anything.” He laughed at the rude gesture she gave him. “Not so nice either. Hmm. I’ll have to add that to my list.”

“I’m trying to tell you I have no food in the house. I need to go grocery shopping.” She scowled. “I hate grocery shopping.”

“Yeah? I love grocery shopping. It’s like an ancient ritual, gathering instead of hunting. And I get to mingle while doing it. A win-win.”

“Some of us don’t go to the veggie aisle to find a hookup.” She could too easily see him chatting up women over tomatoes, making dates over yams. A new girlfriend at each visit. Yep. Time to let reality sink in. J.T. was handsome and sexy but not boyfriend material. She had to stop thinking about him in any way but as a friend.

“I’ll order pizza,” he offered. “You do have something to drink, though, don’t you? Besides water, I mean.”

“I have some sparkling water and juice.”

He made a face. “Fine. I’ll order a two-liter while I’m at it. Any preferences on the pizza?”

“I’m easy.” As soon as she said it, she clamped her mouth shut. The laughter in his eyes didn’t help. “Oh, shut up.”

He smiled wide and ordered a giant pizza—hold the onions.

Either he didn’t like onions, or he hoped to get lucky tonight. She hoped for the former, because despite telling herself in so many ways that he wasn’t good for her, she still hadn’t convinced her hormones to take a backseat to her brain.

After he ordered, they stared at each other until she threw her hands in the air in surrender. “Okay, I’ll get the game.”

“Wait. So we’re really going to play a game?” He looked disappointed. “This isn’t a ploy to get me all to yourself in your cozy little apartment? You’re not going to show me your etchings?”

She tried not to but couldn’t help laughing at the sad face he made. “No, no etchings to see. You can help yourself to a self-guided tour. Just stay out of my dresser.”

“Got it. No panty souvenirs. You’re not getting a good Yelp review, I’m just letting you know.”

“I’m heartbroken.”

He sighed and left her. She heard a door shut and a toilet flush a few moments later, so she knew he hadn’t been rummaging in her bedroom. She hoped. She hadn’t done laundry and could only be glad she’d done a haphazard closet toss of the clothes on her floor. Clean, dirty, she’d sort them out later.

Between laundry and grocery shopping, she had a tie for most-loathed chore she continually put off until she was out of clothes and food.

Once J.T. returned, she set out the Rummikub game, one of her favorites involving number tiles and rummy-like rules.

J.T. frowned at the setup on her kitchen table. “What’s this? I have to do math? You are such a sucky host.”

She bit back a smile. “This will be fun. You’ll see.”

Fun for her. She went through the rules with him twice but refused to be nice to him while they played. Time to let the insults fly. “Let’s go, princess. Play a tile or pick up. I think I just turned forty waiting on you.”

His eyes narrowed. “You’re not that nice, are you? Who knew you turned into a witch when you get competitive? You weren’t like this at Ray’s.”

“I was trying to be nice for your friends.”

“Bullshit. You almost made Sam cry with those bull’s-eyes.”

“Yes, but that was skill, not trash talk,” she said primly, forcing herself to refrain from gloating over her winning hand. Since the tiles in her tray faced her, he had no idea she was going to cream him. The poor sucker hadn’t even laid one set down. “Once you get the hang of it, we should play for money.”

“Oh-ho. A gambler. You’re a real competitor behind that sharklike grin.”

“Flatterer.” She showed him a toothy smile, and he gave a pretend flinch.

The pizza arrived, interrupting them. They ate while they played, though she stuck to her soda water and juice while he guzzled half the bottle of soda. Gross.

“That’s all sugar, you know.”

“I know. But after watching Vargas twitching over a Twix, I decided to save myself from becoming too healthy.”

“Vargas?”

“One of my guys. You met Suke. I work with four artists full time, and we have occasional guest artists work with us when they swing through town. There’s Grim, Vargas, Suke, and Nao. I love ’em, but they took some getting used to.”

“I’m sure you’re just a prince to work with.” She wasn’t kidding.

“Yep. Just call me Mr. Easy.” He winked. “I’m the boss. They work on commission, but I get a small percentage since I pay for the building. I also supply the aftercare products and facilities, including all the furniture. It was a hefty price at the beginning, but totally worth it.

“The application equipment and ink is theirs unless they want to buy from me. Suke can be a pain in the ass about her ink, but that’s expected. She’s really into the details. We all are, but she takes it to an obsessive level.”

“Huh.” Hope had liked Suke, having spent her time talking to the woman while waiting on J.T. At first, Suke’s attention had been a little forceful, but once she’d realized Hope had no interest in going on a date and wasn’t going to flip out by standing near a gay woman, she’d turned off the attitude and been surprisingly pleasant. The woman looked like she had enough brashness to break J.T. in half, so to find her almost sweet under the piercings, tattoos, and gruffness had been an eye-opener.

As if reading her mind, J.T. added with a sly glance, “Suke thinks you’re hot.”

“I am. She has good taste.”

He paused in the act of taking another bite of his slice, set it down, and laughed. “Every time I think I have you figured out, you throw me for a loop. You’re shy and arrogant. Sexy and demure.”

“Demure? Who uses words like ‘demure’ in everyday language?” An artist and poet, her J.T.

No, not mine. Just J.T.

“I’m deep, what can I say? I have many layers, Ms. Donnigan. Peel them back, and you’ll see.” He winked and devoured the rest of his pizza. “Okay, now that I’m pleasantly full, and you’ve trounced me for the fifth time with this stupid game, how about we talk about you and me?”

“You and me?” Hope repeated, her voice cracking. She cleared her throat, ignoring her heated cheeks. “Sorry. Scratchy throat.”

“You and me,” he repeated. “What do you like to do? Your favorite color? Cats or dogs? Tell me something only a lover would know.” His voice deepened, grew huskier.

She was glad they sat at her small kitchen table, because if they’d been on her couch, she feared she might have leaned forward to kiss that smirk off his lips.

“Um, well, I like shopping, walking at night under the stars, and I love old Doris Day movies. My favorite color is red, and I prefer cats over dogs.”

“Something a lover would know?”

She’d been hoping to avoid that one. “Let me get back to you on that.”

“Uh-huh.” He stood, cleared the table, and instead of returning to the kitchen, walked into the living area.

She panicked. “Where are you going?”

“To the couch to get comfortable. Want to join me?”