Page 8 of Love Me Tomorrow

When he moves to leave, two different pairs of arms pin him in place. “No,” both guys mutter emphatically. Kurt frowns, and I stop just short of rolling my eyes.

Time’s up.

I’ve got a cannolo with Shirley to eat, three more stars to ink, and that’s not even factoring in the next two clients that are booked for this afternoon. The first one is getting an easy tat—a skull-and-crossbones combo that I could sketch out in my sleep—but the other scheduled appointment is gonna be a doozy. Covering up some old ink, lots of colors, intricate shading that’s going to take me hours. I don’t have time to be worrying about a random hole in my wall or having to listen to . . .

Christ, is thatNickelbackplaying on the radio?

I meet Chad’s gaze because, out of the lot of them, he seems the one most likely to pull himself together and rise to the occasion. Though if he’s the one responsible for the boob video, maybe I’m wrong.

“I’ll be sure to mention it was an accident,” I manage tightly, “no harm, no foul. But I need that wall fixed, and I don’t have time to wait for the boss to show up whenever she damn well feels like it.”

Almost as one, the group shifts their attention to something or someone coming down the hall. I hear the staccato of heels striking concrete. The sharp breath of Kurt, who honestly looks like he’s about to piss himself. The scrape of my shoes as I twist around, fully prepared to take in what has everyone else looking like petrified hens.

Fuck me.

I wish I hadn’t looked.

Because there, walking toward me, is the one woman who took my dead, neglected heart and dropped the damn thing right in the meat grinder. Even now it beats irregularly, like it’s not sure whether it’s acceptable to launch into a sprint at the sight of her or shrivel up and retreat into hibernation.

If I were anyone else but me—cool, calm, and collected, twenty-four-seven—I’d set a hand on my chest, just to ensure I haven’t suffered a heart attack at a critical time, like Peggy’s husband.

After all, it’s not every day you come face to face with the woman who chose twenty-six other men over you.

When Savannah’s sky-high heels careen to a halt, I know she’s spotted me. Panic floods her gorgeous face, widening her gaze and parting her full lips and making her fingers, which are wrapped around a thick stack of manila folders, clench.

“Owen?” Her voice cracks on the second syllable of my name, and then she swallows, audibly. Shifts her weight from one foot to the other. And I’m just enough of an asshole that I don’t answer, not right away, because the last time we saw each other, she looked me dead in the eye and told me that she felt nothing for me but friendship.

Pure, platonic friendship.

Savannah Rose is a lot of things—sweet, ambitious, a defender to every person around her, even to her own detriment—but I never took her for a liar.

Not until that night.

I feel the tension simmering in the air between us, and it’s not just the New Orleans swampy humidity kicking into gear. It’s us, thistangible chemistrythat I wish didn’t exist but always has, from the very first moment we met, when I was dating her younger sister.

My molars grind together. “Rose.”

She sucks in a harsh breath, as though she can’t believe I have the balls to use my nickname for her. Twisting away, she gives me a view of her profile and one slender shoulder. “What are you doing here? Aren’t you busy with . . . aren’t you busy next door?”

Ice thickens in my veins.

Did she plan on speaking to me? Or did she seriously think that she could waltz into the storefront next to mine and pretend that I don’t exist? Something tells me it’s the latter, and I feel emotion—anger, bitterness, and worse, embarrassment—clog my throat. Clearly, this joint is about to be converted into one of her family’s many restaurants, which means she’ll be in and out of here formonthsduring construction. And then later, too, when the place opens and patrons flock to yet another Edgar Rose Restaurant Group establishment.

As if the city isn’t already overrun by them.

I imagine Savannah sneaking in and out the restaurant, always checking to see if I’m on my way out of Inked, or always heading left, toward St. Peter Street, just so she won’t risk me catching a glimpse of her out my front windows.

The embarrassment recedes, scattering like confetti on a windy day.

I step in her path.

Because I’m feeling ticked off.

Because Iamticked off.

Still, after all these months.

Her thick hair falls in waves down her back, nearly to her waist. Like a curtain, it shields her face from scrutiny. Much as my fingers itch to tuck back the strands—refusing to let her hide from me—I casually hook my thumbs in the belt loops of my jeans instead.

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