Page 13 of Skin Deep

Today she’d inked images onto small swaths of skin, all of it detail work. It had been a damn successful day, even more than she’d anticipated when she’d thought up the promo. The success, and sizable chunk of change now in her pocket, had been secondary benefits, though. And the fact that she’d demonstrated, quite nicely, just how many people she could draw into the plaza at the snap of her fingers wasn’t too shabby, either.

But at its core? The idea for the tattoo clinic had been conceived mostly to irritate Fred. To get under his skin. To kick back, a bit, at the fact that he’d been carrying that stupid letter around and she had no idea what he was planning to do with it.

“What are you afraid of?”

She could hear Fred’s words, echoing in her head. Getting under her skin.

She wondered what he would say if she told him the simple truth—that she was afraid of getting hurt. Maybe it was because her father had died when she was young, or maybe the fear had come from watching her sisters get their hearts broken. Rational or not, the panic existed, urging her to keep people at a distance that she filled with sarcasm and flirtation.

The chair was the last piece of equipment in her cleanup. Placing her hands at the small of her back, she arched her spine to relieve the pressure of a day spent hunched over on her stool.

“I’ve been told I give excellent back rubs.”

Amy jumped, clapping a hand to her chest at the sound of Fred’s velvety voice in the darkness of her shop. Her front door had still been propped open, so she hadn’t heard the usual chime of the bells that she’d strung overhead. She watched, more closely than she would have admitted, as he sauntered into her space, his long body silhouetted by the faint glow of the moon outside.

“What are you doing here?” She frowned, irritated that he’d caught her off guard.

“Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten our date.” He moved close enough that she could see the smirk on his lips, even in the dim light. She could also smell the musk of his skin, the end-of-day remnants of his pricey-smelling cologne.

“It’s not a date. It’s dinner,” she replied archly, crossing her arms over her chest. “And it’s two in the morning. I had no idea you’d actually stick around that long.”

“Then you underestimate me,” he said, reaching for where her battered gray leather jacket hung on the wall. Pulling it from its hook, he held it out for her to slide her arms into. Part of her wanted to refuse, just to be difficult, but the rest of her went ahead and did it before she could think it through. “I’m a man of my word.”

After helping her into the jacket, he ran his thumbs up the nape of her neck, massaging away her stiffness with small circular movements. She moaned and leaned back into the touch for an instant before abruptly pulling away.

She wasn’t into lying to herself, so there was no point in trying to convince herself that there wasn’t anything here between them. An electric chemistry that made her want to close the door to her shop and drag him astride her tattoo chair again.

As she adjusted her jacket, though, she felt the crinkle of the letter, tucked into one of the inner pockets. The reminder was enough to have her get a vise-tight grip on her hormones.

They might have great sex, but Amy wasn’t into lying, wasn’t into pretenses. And Fred had succumbed to their chemistry and had sex with her knowing full well what this letter said, and that he was supposed to give it to her—she assumed, anyway. It was all the more reason to keep herself walled off.

Why, then, did she find herself closing up her shop for the night—morning—and following him?

“This way.” His fingers found an inch of her spine between her shoulder blades and pressed lightly, guiding her farther into the plaza, rather than toward the parking lot, as she’d expected. She felt the heat of the touch even through the thick leather of her jacket.

“Hate to break it to you, but nothing’s going to be open in here.” She cast him a sidelong glance. “Shops close at nine, restaurants at midnight. Plaza rules, remember?”

“Rules that you broke today. On purpose.” He returned her look. She drew herself up straight, prepared to argue, but the look on his face...he didn’t seem mad. He didn’t seem anything, really, except interested.

Interested in her.

“Whatever.” Original, Amy. She barely hid her wince. “Still, we’re not going to find any food in here right now, and I’m hungry.”

“You did warn me you might be late.” He moved the fingers that had been resting on her upper back, sliding them slowly down her spine, leaving a trail of heat in their wake. He guided her around a corner in the promenade, toward the massive fountain that marked the center of the plaza. “So I worked with it.”

“Oh.” Amy’s breath left her on a whoosh as she took in the scene in front of her. The fountain was usually off at night—at least, she assumed it was, because she’d watched it go still right around midnight one night. Right now, though, it was in full flow, the streams of water jumping and dancing and scenting the air with chlorine.

On the wide marble ledge that ran along the edge of the fountain was a red-and-white-checkered cloth—a picnic blanket. There was a basket, too, a wicker one from which emanated the delicious scents of butter and garlic. There was even a bottle of wine, already open to the air, and two glasses balancing on slender stems.

“I...” Nobody had ever done something like this for her before. Ever. “You didn’t have to do this.”

“I know that.” He cast her a sidelong grin before indicating the place where she should sit. “I wanted to.”

“Why?” She wanted—really wanted—to dive into the basket and pull out a big chunk of what she was pretty sure was warm, melty garlic bread, but she refrained. “I mean, yeah, we’re good in bed. Or the chair, I guess. But I haven’t been very nice to you.”

As though he could read her thoughts, he pulled the foil-wrapped loaf of bread from the basket, peeling back the aluminum and handing her the first slice. She held it in her hands but didn’t bite into it, her eyes instead fixed on him.

“Why don’t we just enjoy this meal? This moment?” He smiled at her, but she noticed that it didn’t completely light up his eyes. “How many fountain-side Italian feasts have you had, after all?”

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