Page 19 of Love Me Tomorrow

Standing by the receptionist’s desk and talking to my second-in-command, Jordan, is none other than Savannah herself.

I’d recognize her anywhere, even though she’s not facing me. The thick hair that damn near hangs down to the swell of her ass, the curvy thighs encased in a pair of tight jeans, and the slim ankles that peek out above the thin straps of her high heels. Her girlish laugh echoes in the parlor as I pocket my phone.

As though sensing my arrival, I watch her shoulders stiffen and all that lush hair swing as she whirls around, one hand clutching the desk to keep her steady. “Owen.” Her fingers squeeze the lip of the counter as her mouth tips into a strained smile. “Just who I was looking to see this morning.”

I cut a sharp glance to Jordan, who’s doing a piss-poor job of pretending to look preoccupied with organizing the desk, and then return my focus to Savannah. Her poker face is terrible. The gentlemanly thing to do would be to let her off easy and tell her that I already know about Mike’s Hard Daiquiri.

But I’m no gentleman.

Lifting a sardonic brow, I stare at her expectantly. “Is that so?”

“Yup!” She nabs her purse off the counter and hooks the strap over her arm. One step in my direction and I catch the effervescent scent of her perfume. It’s light and airy and reminds me of summer days spent on the deck of my boat, the sun kissing my skin and the water spritzing my face as I hit the gas, hard. Licking her lips, like she’s nervous, Savannah tilts her head to the side. “I was hoping to talk with you. It’ll only take a few minutes of your time.”

The last time she took a few minutes of my time, I called her a coward.

Most of me regrets the pain I saw blooming in her gaze. Part of me still stands by what I said, knowing that if she had the backbone to acknowledge that what I and Amelie shared was nothing more than casual dinner dates that never progressed further than kissing, we’d be in a completely different position right now.

And still part of me wants to punish her for denying what we have—what wehad—in front of the entire goddamn country. I’m not the kind of person who wears his heart on his sleeve. Over the years, I’ve done a damn good job of caging my emotions until the past, and all my shadows, hold no leverage over who I am now.

Against my better judgment, I still took that leap of faith seven months ago.

For her.

For us.

For fucking nothing.

Like he’s possessed, Jordan bangs on the computer keyboard. When he catches my eye, he holds up his hands with dramatic flair. “Sorry, that’s my go-to response when I can feel the awkwardness levels in the air rising.”

“You torture technology?”

“Caress it,” he corrects somberly, “I caress it gently, but yeah, how about you two take this little . . .” Nose scrunching, he scratches the back of his head. “Whatever you want to call it—the beginning of the end? A heart-to-heart? Either way, take it to the office, would you? Before I feel compelled to accidentally hurl the computer against the wall, and we still don’t have that hole fixed yet.”

Considering that at one point in time a mother and daughter overheard Jordan having sex with a client in the parlor’s storage closet, he doesn’t have room to talk smack. Still, I’m not looking for an audience. What Savannah and I have to discuss isn’t up for public consumption—not even for Jordan, who was the first tattoo artist I hired here at Inked.

“Man the phone,” I tell him.

He palms the telephone like it’s his lover. “Already being manned, boss man.”

“Try not to scar any more family members by unzipping your pants.”

Jordan throws up his arms. “It wasonetime, Harvey. One time!”

“And none of us have ever recovered.” Let’s just say that Jordan’s big attitude doesn’t correlate to the attitude he’s packing in his pants—if you catch my drift. “You know the Yelp review from that mom still circulates at the top of our most helpful reviews, right? Two thousand likes and counting.”

“It’s made us famous. Come for the ink, stay for the dick.”

Savannah stifles a laugh into a closed fist. “In terms of marketing campaigns, it could be worse.”

Thrusting a finger in her direction, Jordan exclaims, “See what I mean? I’m a trendsetter.”

“Nah,” I murmur, rapping my knuckles on the counter, “trendsetting would entail that you earned yourself a solid positive review.” I flash him a quick grin. “And if you read all the way to the bottom, you’d have seen that the mom complained that Yelp doesn’t offer negative stars.”

“Dammit, man. Who the hell actually clickssee moreto read all the way to the end?”

Savannah raises her hand. “I did. You know, when Owen told me about it last year. That reviewer was very . . . verbose.”

“It can’t bethatbad.”

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