Page 12 of Skin Deep

With Andy-Randy stuck to his side like a thorn, Fred inched his way toward the front of the line, looking for her. As he neared the front of the line, he noticed that everyone was glued to their phone. Not unusual, but he managed to catch a glimpse over a burly man’s shoulder and saw what everyone was flipping through—black-and-white tattoo designs.

The anticipation he’d felt at the opportunity to see Amy was instantly tempered with the sudden flare of impending doom. He was pretty sure that, whatever she was up to, he wasn’t going to like it. Trying to hide his wince, he inched forward through the thick throng of people until he saw what everyone was there for—her.

Even with the sudden caution signs blaring in his head, he couldn’t help the knee-jerk punch of lust he felt just from looking at her. Today Amy wore a sorry excuse for shorts, the ripped and faded denim not leaving much to the imagination. With it she’d paired a pale pink tank top like the white one she’d had on yesterday and, even from here, he could tell that she was once again not wearing a bra.

He could have groaned out loud at the memory of those silver bars in his mouth, but he thought that was probably frowned upon in public. Or maybe not, because the young dude laid out in the chair she’d inexplicably dragged out front of her shop was clearly ignoring the view. His attention bounced between her gorgeous face, accentuated today with a slash of cherry-red lipstick, and the view he was getting through the front of her shirt as Amy inked something onto his chest. Before he could help himself, Fred had closed the rest of the distance between himself and Amy, leaving Andy-Randy behind.

“What’s going on here?” He positioned himself between the crowd and Amy. With his hands, he gestured to her entire sidewalk setup, but he was looking at Amy’s lascivious would-be suitor.

“Back of the line, dude.” The kid was maybe twenty-two, a hipster wearing skinny jeans and thick, plastic-rimmed glasses. Propping himself up on his elbows, he glared up at Fred, hyped up on the righteous indignation he’d probably picked up at his latest Save the Whales protest.

Arching an eyebrow, Fred looked down at the kid from his full height, smirking as the kid slowly melted back down into the chair. Pivoting, he turned his attention back to Amy...only to find that she hadn’t even looked up from her work.

“Amy. What is this?” He was genuinely confused. She has a perfectly nice shop right behind her, so why on earth was she tattooing someone in the middle of the promenade? “Why are all these people here?”

“It’s called an event, Mr. Vaughan.” Finally, finally she looked up at him, her lips curved into a mocking smile. “It’s a tattoo clinic. I posted ten simple designs on Instagram yesterday for a set price. Anyone who preordered one online can come in today and get it done, no matter how long I’m here.”

“But...why?” He looked from her to the empty shop behind her, then back.

“I was curious.” She looked up at him, and there was something in those deep blue eyes that he couldn’t quite identify. “I wanted to see just how many people I could bring in on a whim. Wanted to make sure that I wasn’t being a deadbeat tenant—you know, one who can’t pull anyone in here to shop.”

She jerked her chin across the way to the luxury luggage store to make her point. It was empty of customers, with a bored salesclerk perched on a sleek leather trunk as she tapped away on her phone.

A trickle of unease worked its way through Fred’s gut at her words, which seemed like they were directly addressing...something. Slowly, he slid his hand into the pocket inside his suit jacket, feeling for the crinkle of the paper letter he’d been dragging his feet on delivering to her.

Shit. It wasn’t there. Had she seen it? Was that what this was about?

He looked down at her, into those blue eyes that seemed to mock him for a long moment. Her expression revealed nothing, and after a minute he told himself that he was paranoid. This woman wasn’t one who stood quietly by when she was upset. If she’d read the letter, she would have marched up to his office and slapped it on his desk.

Wouldn’t she?

“Something on your mind?” She cocked her head as she looked up at him. That saucy smile made him want to run his thumb over the pillowy curves. “Ready for that tattoo, perhaps?”

“What time will you be done?” He took a step forward, deliberately moving into her space. He watched her chest quiver as she inhaled a quick breath, and he ached to place his mouth on hers...or elsewhere.

“Why do you ask?” Without looking at the young guy in her chair, she patted him on the shoulder to let him know he was done, then stood to face Fred. “Is this where you tell me that staying open after hours is against regulations?”

“It is against regulations,” he said quietly, reaching out a single finger to trace over the line of her cheekbone. “But I suspect that you already know that.”

“I might.” Her look was full of challenge, and it called to him.

“Have dinner with me.” He made his words a challenge, too, knowing that if he showed just how much he wanted her—not even the sex, but just to be around her, absorbing her—she’d say no. A challenge, though? He was pretty sure she’d rise to that.

“Dinner?” Reaching for a bottle of water, she lifted it to her lips, and he found himself transfixed at the sight of a water droplet that missed her mouth. “Why would I want to have dinner with you?”

“Are you really going to play this game, Amy?” Lowering his hand, he swiped it through that drop of water, then lifted it to his lips. “You want me. I want you. We both need to eat. What are you afraid of?”

She narrowed her eyes as she finished the bottle of water, then stepped back. She cast a look at the long line of waiting people, as if considering, before turning back to him.

“I don’t know when I’ll be done.” He might have been hearing things, but he was pretty sure he heard a wisp of disappointment in her voice, though she covered it well. “I could be up all night.”

“That’s okay,” he replied, stepping away. Andy-Randy had finally found him and stood off to the side, watching the give and take with confusion on his face. Fred, though? His thoughts were perfectly clear.

“I’m pretty sure you’ll be worth waiting for.”

CHAPTER SIX

AMY’S ARMS ACHED as she hauled her chair back into her shop. Her wrists were sore, too, her hands numb from the vibration of the needles all day long. She usually worked a full day, but those appointments were for bigger pieces of work. They were longer, with breaks built in.

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