The week before the opening, everything about INK was in full motion and Emmie was trying not to lose her mind. Ox and Ethan were putting the final touches on the tattoo shop, hanging newly refinished doors on the cabinets, waxing the floors, and perfecting the plumbing in the sinks Ethan had installed. Emmie and Tayla were cataloging inventory, sorting shelves, and creating displays for the opening-day reception.

Ethan and Emmie had driven out to Metlin Brewing Company to work out a deal for the microbrewer to serve their seasonal ale, cider, and root beer at the opening reception while Daisy was baking dozens of book cookies decorated like the covers of classic books. Ads were already in place in the Metlin Gazette, and Ox’s phone was ringing off the hook with clients booking appointments for when he was ready to open.

The old barber chair Ox had bought was the centerpiece of his shop, but a new rolling stool and a massage table hid behind a discreet screen for privacy. The walls were hung with his art, and yes, he had found a stuffed jackalope. The tattoo shop had a distinctly masculine feel, but it was still open and friendly with windows Ox had painted facing 7th Avenue. A sign advertising his hours and website was ready to be placed on the sidewalk outside.

The coffee station was ready for business. They had a drip machine to make larger pots for things like book clubs and a single-serve machine for those times in between. An eclectic selection of mugs lined the counter along with assorted sweeteners. Cream and milk was in the small fridge beneath the counter.

It was all a bit overwhelming, but she’d be fine in a week.

Probably.

The shared lounge area was the centerpiece of the shop, sitting right in the middle of the tattoo shop and the bookshelves. The long couch had been re-covered and was joined by two chairs, a coffee table, and several stools. A mix of art books and tattoo magazines littered the table. Bookmarks, stickers, and journals sat in racks by the register.

Emmie stood at the door, trying not to be overwhelmed. It was seven days till the grand opening, and she had nothing to be worried about. Tayla had already been updating the shop’s social media accounts and posting pictures. Over three hundred people followed them already, and they weren’t even open. Emmie had sent postcards announcing the opening to her grandmother’s old mailing list. It was only a few hundred people, but she’d already had a few excited calls asking about book clubs.

Emmie turned when the bell over the door rang and saw Daisy walking in with another pillow for the couch.

“Hey,” Daisy said. “Finished the last one.”

“Thanks.”

“Why do you have a scared-shitless expression on your face?” Daisy asked.

“Probably because I’m scared shitless.” Emmie tugged on the sleeve of her cardigan. “What if no one comes?”

“Didn’t Tayla say that over one hundred people had already responded to the online invite?”

“Is that enough? I have no idea.” She was trying not to panic. “I remember running the numbers and doing the projections, but somehow none of that is coming to mind right now. I just look at my grandma’s shop which”—she turned and put her hands in a frame position—“does not look like my grandma’s shop anymore. At all. And I’m now almost positive this was the stupidest thing I’ve ever done and I should have taken Adrian’s advice to sell or rent this place to Banana Gap or something.”

Daisy bit her lower lip, trying not to laugh. “Banana Gap?”

“Or something.”

Daisy came beside Emmie and put an arm around her. “Okay, deep breaths.”

Emmie forced a breath in and out. Then she let her eyes rest on Ox, who was hanging upper cabinet doors. His shirt—the evil shirt that covered his beautiful inked muscles—rode up over his waistband as he stretched his arms over his head. She shouldn’t have been so hard on him. If she was standing behind him, she’d be sorely tempted to run her tongue along the small of his back, not just her fingers.

Daisy followed Emmie’s eyes. “Are you in your happy place now?”

Emmie kept her voice low. “I know I shouldn’t, but…”

“This is judgment-free space between us right now.” Daisy patted her shoulder.

“I’m judging myself.” She closed her eyes and pressed the heels of her hands to her forehead. “Okay, what am I forgetting?”

“That shopping trip we were taking today to revamp your wardrobe before the grand opening.”

Emmie squinted. “Nope. That is not what I’m forgetting because I never agreed to that.”

Tayla walked over with her purse. “Yep, pretty sure that’s it. Hi, Daisy.”

“Hey, Tayla.”

Emmie looked between her two best friends. “Is this a setup?”

“No,” Tayla said. “This is a kidnapping.”

Two hours later, Emmie was still in hell, but it was starting to feel cozy warm instead of sweltering. Of course, that might have had something to do with the three margaritas she’d had at lunch.

She tried to wiggle out of the trendy, torn jeans they’d forced her into. “These are too tight. And they’re torn. I’m pretty sure they make my butt look huge.”

“They do not. And they’re artfully torn,” Tayla said. “Since we’re going for the nerdy bohemian look for you, artfully torn jeans are a must.”

“What is nerdy bohemian?” She tugged on the jeans, which she had to admit were comfortable but also fitted to her butt, which she hated. Of all the areas of her body to be oversized, it had to be her ass. Not her boobs. Her butt.

Luckily, margaritas had been invented by the patron saint of long lunches.

“Nerdy bohemian?” Daisy sipped on an iced coffee. “Let’s see, you watch sappy period drama but also you might fly off to Budapest at the last minute to visit a friend who’s preparing for fashion week in Milan.”

Emmie’s eyes bugged out. “I don’t know anyone who’s going to fashion week in any city. What—”

“You watch Doctor Who,” Tayla interrupted, “but only while drinking absinthe.”

“You drink craft beer and listen to K-pop.”

“You guys are ridiculous.” Emmie caught a filmy kimono thing that Daisy threw at her head. “What am I supposed to do with this? Is this a robe? Where do I wear something like this?”

“You wear it to work! Listen, you in cool torn-up jeans, that vintage Great Gatsby T-shirt you’re wearing—we should see about stocking that kind of thing in the shop, by the way—and a coordinating wrap like this.” Tayla squared Emmie to the mirror and put the kimono over her shoulders. “Rock and roll jeans. Nerd-girl T-shirt. Bohemian shrug.” She tugged Emmie’s braid over her shoulder. “Loose braid of amazing hair. Mismatched earrings. Maybe add a scarf or a chunky necklace.”

Emmie stared at the more stylish version of herself in the mirror. “This is mostly stuff I have.”

“You have a lot of T-shirts—you need good jeans and cool accessories,” Tayla said. “But it’s not a makeover because you don’t need to be remade. You have cool stuff, you just need to learn how to put it together. Will you trust me? This is a thing I do, okay?”

Emmie wavered. She did look nice in the mirror. Still herself, but more put together. And the jeans were torn, but they did look cool. And they were definitely more comfortable than her regular work clothes.

Daisy added, “You’ve been wearing old jeans and T-shirts for the renovation, but you can’t wear those or your Bay City wardrobe when you open. This is Metlin, not Union Square. I get itchy just hearing the word slacks.”

“That’s because slacks is an awful word,” Tayla said. “But Daisy is right. You need to let your hair down.”

“Literally?”

“And we really need to show off your ink,” Daisy said.

Emmie glared at her in the mirror. “It’s my whole back. No.”

“One shirt!” Daisy said. “There’s this amazing burgundy velvet shirt at Marcella’s you need to see. It’s got an open draped back—”

“I’m not going braless!”

Tayla rolled her eyes. “You have adorable teacup boobs. You can wear one of those sticky bras and be fine.”

“Spider is going to finish your back—your beautiful, amazing piece-of-art back tattoo—this Friday night,” Daisy said. “Which gives you a week to heal. And this shirt would show it off perfectly. It’s high-necked in front, so it’s still modest. It’s just totally open at the back and the colors would be amazing with the butterfly wings.”

Tayla rested her chin on Emmie’s shoulder. “Please let me dress you up. You wear a size six. There are a million clothes that fit you. Let me live vicariously.”

“Don’t pull that. You have way more clothes than me, and you always look amazing.”

“But it takes much more effort. Trust me on this.” Tayla gave her puppy dog eyes. “Please, Emmie. Please please please—”

“Fine.” She looked at the price tag on the kimono thing and her eyes went wide. “How many of these am I supposed to buy?”

“This one is your birthday present. Two more and then some cool scarves and you’ll be fine. Think of it as an investment. In you. In the shop. In your nonexistent sex life—”

“Hey!”

“You know you want Ox to look at you and drool,” Tayla whispered. “Even if you never do anything about it, you want to make his eyes bug out.”

Emmie took a deep breath, glanced at Daisy’s hopeful eyes in the mirror, and gave in. “Okay, I’ll try on the shirt.”

Daisy stood up and clapped. “And you can try on the leather pants that go with it.”

“I did not agree to leather pants!”

Emmie stumbled back to the shop with four bags of clothes including the backless shirt. Despite begging and pleading, she hadn’t given in to the leather pants, but she did have three new pair of jeans that “did justice to her legs” according to her friends.

It was dark and she was more than a little off-balance from a combination of shopping bags and the steady stream of margaritas Tayla and Daisy had been dosing her with all afternoon. Her head swam nicely as she waved at them in the car. As she opened the Main Street door, she saw a light in Ox’s corner of INK. He was still working. He had a pile of frames on the counter, and it looked like he was mounting flash to hang on the wall.

“Hey!” she said. “You’re still here.”

Ox glanced up. “Hey yourself. Where have you been?”

“Tayla and Daisy are evil and made me buy girl-clothes.”

“I thought chicks liked buying clothes,” he muttered.

“I do like buying clothes. I order sarcastic T-shirts online and…” She blinked. “I forgot what I was going to say.”

Ox looked up and smiled. “Buttons, you’re drunk.”

“No, I’m… relaxed. And you should do that more. But stop calling me Buttons.”

“Do what?” He put a screwdriver down and walked over. “What should I do more?” He reached for her bags.

“Smile.” Emmie handed them over because they were heavy enough to be cutting into her hands. “Smile more. That’s what I noticed about you first.”

“Oh yeah?”

“When I first saw you, I thought you were mean. Then you smiled at this old lady and helped her load stuff in her car. And then I thought you were nice.”

Ox’s smile turned softer. “I am nice.”

“I know that now. But when I first saw you, you were always yelling at Ginger.”

He put a hand on the small of her back and herded her toward the stairs that led to the second-floor apartment. “Some people bring out the worst in each other.” His voice dropped. “Some people bring out the best.”

They started up the stairs, Ox walking behind Emmie and holding her shopping bags. Her head was swimming just enough to destroy her filter. She’d be embarrassed tomorrow. Tonight, she was too curious. “Which kind am I?”

He tugged on her waistband. “What do you think?”

Emmie turned and they were almost nose to nose. “I like you.”

Some expression moved over his face, but it was too dark to read it. “Probably a good thing since we’ll be working together.”

“I picked out books for you. I ordered them yesterday.”

He smiled again, and his eyes crinkled in the corners. “What kind of books?”

“Adventure books. Like Hatchet, but adult fiction. Some nonfiction. And a sci-fi novel. You didn’t mention sci-fi, but this one is kind of more steampunk and I think you might like it.” She blinked and tried to reach for one of her bags. He shouldn’t be carrying all of them. “I mean, I hope you’ll like it. I tried—”

“I’ll like it.” He held the bag away from her. “What are you doing?”

“Trying to get my shirt. It’s very embarrassed. It doesn’t have a back.”

“The shirt is embarrassed?”

“No, I am. When I wear it.”

He frowned. “So why did you buy it?”

“Because Daisy wants me to show off my tattoo.”

He glanced at the bag. “Do you want to show off your tattoo?”

“Kind of.” She leaned forward and nearly lost her balance.

Ox dropped the bags in his right hand. “Careful.” He slid his arm around her waist, his fingers skimming along the skin at the small of her back.

Emmie shivered and goose bumps rose on her arms. “Sorry.”

“We should get you upstairs.”

Neither of them moved. Emmie stared at the ink along his collarbone and saw his throat move as he swallowed.

“Maybe you should show me.” His finger was stroking along the softly raised lines of ink along her spine. “Just to practice before you debut it to the world. I’m a professional.”

“Huh?” Her head was swimming, and she was pretty sure it wasn’t just from the margaritas anymore.

“If you’re going to show your ink to the world”—his finger kept moving back and forth, back and forth—“maybe you should let me see first.”

She blinked. “You want me to take my shirt off?”

He closed his eyes and his shoulders shook in silent laughter. “Upstairs, Buttons.”

“That’s kind of unprofessional. You shouldn’t ask me to take my shirt off. That might be sexual harassment.”

“You’re my landlord.” He nudged her around and up the stairs, leaving the bags on the floor and keeping one hand on her. “So I kind of work at your pleasure. I think sexual harassment works the other way in this situation.”

She shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

“Also, you’re drunk, so I’m definitely not asking you to take your shirt off.”

“Okay, that’s good.” She managed to get the door open and the lights on.

Ox set down the bags and went back for the others. He put them all in the small entry where Emmie dropped her keys on the antique dressing table she’d moved from the bedroom.

“Turn around,” she said.

He frowned. “What?”

“Turn.” She spun her finger in a circle. “Turn your back.”

“Ooookay.” He turned his back and Emmie turned hers, counting on liquid courage to get her through the first reveal. She pulled up her shirt and removed her bra before she held both bundled over her front, revealing her back to the chilled air of the apartment.

“Emmie?”

She stared at the streetlights reflecting on the windows of the apartment across the street, realizing that somewhere in the opposite building, Ginger had her own apartment where she and Ox had shared a bed.

She almost lost her nerve. She was no voluptuous beauty. She was skinny. She was pale. There was cellulite on her thighs and she was only twenty-seven, for heaven’s sake. She definitely needed to start exercising.

Do it, Emmie.

“Okay, you can look.”

She heard him turn and then the quick inhalation of breath. A slow exhalation.

“Wow.” He moved closer. “Can I turn on this lamp?”

She nodded.

The lamp on the kitchen counter clicked on, and warm gold light filled the apartment. She could hear Ox coming closer.

“Fucking gorgeous. That deep burgundy on the wings. That’s”—he cleared his throat—“really beautiful.” His voice dropped. “Really, really beautiful.” She heard him kneel down, felt the heat of his hands near the small of her back. “Do you mind if I…?”

She shook her head, still speechless. She knew if she wore the backless shirt, people would look. Somehow having Ox examine her with an artist’s eye was easier. She could hear the appreciation in his voice, but it wasn’t about her. It was about the ink.

It was about the ink.

What Ox was seeing was an intricate tapestry of vines, flowers, and butterflies, all in the pre-Raphaelite style. Deep green and blue shading covered her back, turning her pale skin into a garden. Butterflies flitted from shoulder to shoulder as vines and leaves crawled up the nape of her neck.

He tapped on her spine. “Is this a cover?”

“The roots?”

“Yeah.”

She nodded. “The stupidity of youth. I wanted a butterfly, and I didn’t want to ask Spider to do it.”

“Mistake.”

“Trust me, he’s never let me forget it.”

Ox’s low laugh soothed her nerves, but it didn’t get rid of the goose bumps on her skin. Hopefully he’d think they were from the cool air.

“Your skin is fair; the colors show up well.” He brushed his fingertips over her left lower back. “And his shading here is so good. That brown almost looks like velvet. How does he do that?”

“I wish I could see it from your perspective. I only get mirrors.”

A single finger trailed up the right side of her back to her shoulder. “You could have him extend this vine at some point, curl this branch over your shoulder and down your arm.”

Emmie’s mouth dropped open and her eyes closed. Dear Lord… His hands were warm and a little rough. Her skin felt every tiny movement. She wanted him to continue the line he was drawing, over her shoulder, across her collarbone, down to her—

“At least”—he took his fingers off her skin and Emmie tried not to cry—“that’s what I’d do if it were my design, but it’s yours. And”—she felt a warm thumb make one last brush over her shoulder—“it’s amazing. Fucking gorgeous, Emmie.”

“Thank you.”

He stood up and put his hand on her shoulder before he leaned down to her ear. “Thank you,” he whispered. “I should probably go now.”

Emmie couldn’t speak.

“I’d rethink that backless shirt though.”

“What?” She looked over her shoulder. “Why?”

“Trust me.” He skimmed a hand over her shoulders before he walked to the door. “Everyone will want to touch.”