It said a lot of shitty things about me that I enjoyed the deer-in-the-headlights look I was getting from Kate so much.

But hell, I’d drawn and redrawn that gypsy fifty fucking times trying to get it right. Sketch hadn’t kept it a secret who the tattoo was for. If she was going to come into Sailor’s Grave and get inked—and a fucking rational gypsy, no less—she was getting it done by me. No question.

Jess could give me all the shit she wanted about that “perfect” comment, but we both knew it wasn’t about me getting cocky. She knew exactly how much hearing that hit me when it came from Kate.

Clearly, I was pathetic as hell on top of being an ass.

I thought all of this while we fixed and placed the stencil on the right side of her ribs, ending up with the design expanding from down on the top of her hip all the way up until about the middle of her breasts. I was a fucking professional and didn’t so much as glance to the side where she had her shirt rolled to cover herself. But that didn’t mean I wasn’t aching to.

“That’s going to take some time. Two sittings, if not three, depending on how it goes,” I warned her.

Her body turned to the side, she kept looking at the stencil in the mirror. “That’s fine. This is how I want it.”

“Then that’s all that matters.”

She met my eyes in the mirror and she looked vaguely surprised, like me saying that was somehow odd. What she wanted was what mattered. It was the end all be all for everything we’d do with that tattoo. It was the reason I’d never truly pursue her unless she gave me any indication she welcomed it. It was the most basic line in the sand, a line I’d never even think of crossing.

“Thank you.”

“Come on, let’s get you settled at my station and we can start cranking out this outline,” I told her, moving past that before she got uncomfortable.

My station was like a second home to me now. We were all encouraged to leave our mark on the place. As with any shop, that meant displaying our designs around the space, but here it also meant painting. The walls as a whole at Sailor’s Grave were gray with accents of black and white. Each of our stations, marked off by half-height walls that Jess liked to call out “playpens,” were decorated as we saw fit. Most of us painted the half walls with designs that matched our style. Parker had gotten into art with graffiti and covered his in it. Grant did a lot of horror shit and had an homage to classic horror movies. Sketch, who could certainly nail a portrait even if it wasn’t his go-to tattooing style, had paintings of his wife and girls. As for mine, I’d decided on a mural of classic tattoo art.

I sat on my stool and turned back to see Kate had stopped following me to inspect the colorful walls. She took her time, and though that work had been seen by countless customers, somehow it felt intimate. She didn’t just look and comment “that shit is badass” or “I love the colors.” She seemed to trace every curve and line with her eyes, stepping slowly along the length like she was in a gallery looking at priceless paintings. When she came to the doorway of sorts and saw what was on the edge, she smiled. And it was real.

I swear to fucking God, the woman could get men to do just about anything for that smile.

“What’s this?”

I couldn’t keep from grinning myself. The lime green handprints were my favorite part, even if I couldn’t take a lick of credit for them.

“My baby brother, Connor, did that.” I reached over to grab the frame from my drawing table and brought it over to her. “This is him and my sister, Tracy.”

In the picture, Tracy was giving Connor a piggyback ride—or attempting to, anyway—and I was still able to comfortably wrap my arm around his neck. Tracy could bitch that she wasn’t a munchkin all she wanted, that picture was my proof.

“He’s cute,” she observed. She didn’t bat an eye at the helmet Connor had on, something we all felt more comfortable for him to have on at times since he was prone to occasional seizures. “You look really close.”

“We are. Always have been. Do you have siblings?”

Her smile went somewhat tense as she sat. “No. Just me. My parents really shouldn’t have had kids at all.”

“Well, maybe despite them, but you turned out all right.” Not wanting to get us into another tense spot, I changed topics. “I’m going to start the outline at the top, so how you’re positioned for that part is up to you. You can sort of straddle the chair and I can put up part for you to lean against, or you can lie down on your side. That’ll be how I’ll need you when we get farther down.”

If my cock could talk, he’d be pointing out the list of ways he had to have her.

“I’ll probably sit up first, then.”

So, she went ahead and straddled the fucking thing like I’d indicated. I was a fucking creep for thinking about how I’d rather have her straddling me.

I adjusted the table for her so she’d have the surface to rest her arms on and lean forward and made my excuse to get out of there. “I just need to go sterilize everything, and then I’ll be back.”

As I walked from my station and through the main part of the shop, I caught Jess’s eyes, bugging mine out so she’d get the hint. In back, I prepped everything while I waited for her to follow.

“What’s up with you?”

“I’m a fucking mess. Like Jesus Christ, I’m jealous of my goddamn table right now because she’s out there straddling the thing.”

I was expecting her to roast me right off, but she said nothing. I glanced behind me to see her looking more serious than I expected.

“What?”

She rubbed the shaved side of her head, her tell that she was unsure.

“Look, I know I’ve given you a lot of shit about your thing for her, but have you really thought about this? I remember when they lost him. She was a fucking wreck for a long time. And honestly, I have my doubts that she’s come that far from that. I worry—”

I cut in there. “I know. I know there’s no chance. I’m not expecting anything different.”

“I’m not saying that. Maybe she will be ready to move on, and you’re an ass, but you’d be a good guy for her to do that with. I just don’t want you to…” She shrugged.

“Latch on way too soon and get my heart pulverized?” I provided.

“Kinda.”

“Trust me, I know all of that. I can’t say I’m not feeling a shit ton of pull her way, but I’m not going to get attached unless there’s something concrete to attach to.”

Her tense expression told me she wasn’t sure she believed me, which was fine.

I wasn’t sure I believed me, either.

Whatever she was feeling, she let it drop. “Just keep it in your pants, Romeo. I’ve already got a spot in mind on the website for that tattoo, and I’m going to be pissed if you fuck it up because all the blood’s too far south.”

“Have I ever fucked up?”

“Tattooing? Not that I know of, but you haven’t been here your whole career, either.”

She was already walking away, but I called after her, “That’s cold, babe. You’ll crush my spirit like that.”

I got her middle finger over her shoulder as she went back to her desk.

“I’m so fucked,” I muttered to myself, going back to the autoclave.

I’d been tattooing for years. I’d put more ink in people’s skin than I could remember. But I knew without a fucking doubt, this was going to be my biggest challenge yet.

It wasn’t just about controlling myself. It wasn’t about not getting in too deep.

It was all about leaving my mark in whatever way I could.