Page 185 of The Trouble With Bad Boys

Her head snaps up, and she rises to her feet, clumsily gripping the folder. “Yes. Uh … hi. Yeah, I’m uh Sophie.”

I suppress my grin at her awkwardness and hold out my hand. “Hi, I’m Lincoln. Would you like to come through to my office? We can get started.”

“Sure. Yeah, uh that’d be great.” I lead her through to my office, and her eyes widen as she scans the photographs on the walls, displaying some of our best work. “These are incredible.” She steps closer to the life-size photograph of my back and presses her hand to her chest. “This one is full of pain, with that dark angel standing protectively over the little girl.” Her eyes trace the image. “Those wings look like they could open, and he could fly away at any moment. The detail is incredible.” She says the last part softly, more to herself than to me.

I move next to her. “That’s some of Ken’s work. The old guy out front.” She turns her head to look at me, and I realize how close I’m standing. I thought her eyes were a simple color, but a ring of darker brown surrounds the lighter brown center with striations almost the color of coffee. Her lips part, and my gaze drops to the red-stained pillows. I wonder what color they are without all the crap on them? Shoving my hands in my front pockets, I step back and raise my chin to the chair opposite my desk. “Please take a seat, and we’ll get started.”

She makes herself comfortable and slides the folder she’s holding across the table. “I thought I’d bring my full portfolio for you to see.”

I leave it sitting in the middle of my desk. “I thought you said you were twenty-six on your application.”

She straightens her spine, adding another inch to her height. “I am.”

“You look younger.”

“I can show you a copy of my birth certificate if you don’t believe me,” she fires back. She’s no pushover. I like that. “I didn’t think to bring it with me. What does my age matter, anyway?”

I shrug. “Just don’t want someone who’s not gonna be reliable, and I find kids can be flaky.”

“Well, I’m not a kid, and I’m not flaky,” she says firmly. “You can always rely on me to be on time, to do what’s expected, if not more, and to take responsibility for any mistakes and work toward not making them again.” She shrugs, raising a single brow. “I’m the best person for this position, Mr. Kingsley. You won’t be sorry.” Mr. Kingsley.

I appreciate her candor, and I know Ken will, too. I reach forward to collect her folder, sliding it closer. Without taking my eyes off the girl opposite me, I flip open the cover. I’ve already seen the pieces she attached to her application, but neither of those prepared me for the first illustration. Her talent and line work are exceptional. She’ll be a fantastic asset to our team, providing an alternate style of artwork from Ken and me. “How long have you been drawing?”

“Since I was a kid. Then I studied art in high school and finally specialized in fine arts at community college.” Her eyes scan the tattoo on my arm, and she lifts her chin toward it. “Who did that?”

I point toward the front room. “Ken.”

Her eyebrows rise. “He’s good.”

“That he is.” I study her closely. “You don’t seem to have any art.”

Defensiveness shadows her features. “Not that you can see.”

That piques my interest. “So you do have art?”

Tucking her thick hair behind her ear, her eyes dart from one side to the other. “Yeah. Why?”

“It wouldn’t sit well with me if you didn’t have any art. It would suggest to me and our clients that you’re not a fan of tattoos.” I lift and drop one shoulder, tilting my head to the side. “It would come across as hypocritical.” I wait for her to argue—she doesn’t seem the type to take a comment like that lying down.

“Well, I have art,” she snaps.

I raise my brows, waiting for her to expand, but she isn’t forthcoming. “Right. How much tattoo experience have you had?”

She readjusts her position and studies the artwork behind my desk with great interest. “None,” she murmurs.

Surely I didn’t hear that correctly. I flip open her application and drag my eyes down the page. “It says here that you worked at artWORX for two years.”

“Yeah, that’s correct.” She swallows, and I watch her slender throat move.

“As a …” I raise my eyebrows and leave the sentence hanging for her to finish.

Turning her head to the side, she finally responds. “Receptionist.”

Damn it! I knew she was too good to be true. “This position is for a receptionist-slash-tattoo artist.”

“I know.” Pushing her shoulders back and sitting taller, she looks me in the eye. “I’m a fast learner, Mr. Kingsley.” Shit, if she keeps calling me that, I won’t be able to keep my hard-on at bay. “I already have the artistic ability. I just need to learn how to use the gun.”

I run my hands through my messy hair. This isn’t going how I thought it would. I stand abruptly, pushing my chair back so it bangs against the wall. “This isn’t a trainee opportunity.” I rest the tips of my fingers on my desk and lean forward—I’m sure from her lowered position I’m intimidating, but she doesn’t budge. “It’s not as simple as learning how to use the gun. There’s technique, shading, color, design, communication, infection control, knowledge of the skin and muscles, wound care, scarring … there’s so fucking much to know. It’s not just drawing on flesh.” This sort of attitude frustrates the shit out of me.

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