Page 64 of Love Me Tomorrow

Interior design is not in my wheelhouse.

Matching rugs and sofas and pictures on the wall—it’s a sure-fire way to have me reaching for a beer, popping the tab, and guzzling it down. When I started flipping properties with the opening of Inked a decade ago, I did it on a whim. A way to prove to myself that I could, despite the fact that I should be the last person on earth working with textiles and styles and colors.

A tattoo artist sidelining in real estate? Guess you can say that I like diversifying my income, even at the expense of my sanity.

Downing some of the chilled local brew, I survey the living room of my newest soon-to-be-rental with my shoulder propped up against the kitchen wall.

I went with beachy tones to match the fact that the house is situated on one of Barataria’s many intracoastal waterways. Big glass windows with hurricane shutters attached; a massive wraparound porch that circles the entire second floor of the raised house; slate floors that stay cool, even in the middle of summer.

It’s gonna sell like hotcakes.

Most of the properties down here in Barataria are large and in charge but haven’t been touched in at least a decade or two. I figure if this one is taken off my hands quick, I’ll buy another down here too.

World domination: Owen Harvey style.

I can’t help but wonder if Savannah would approve of the setup.

Stop thinking about her, man.

I bring the bottle to my mouth, taking a healthy swallow of the hoppy brew.

Yesterday at Inked . . . Christ, she’d been fire in my arms, her desire all too willing to be stoked the minute I pushed her over the edge. Her hands gripping my arms, that little moan she makes in that back of her throat sending my pulse into overdrive, the way she whispered my name, like she was on the verge of coming just from dry humping me in an empty hallway.

Thealmostempty hallway.

Fucking Jordan. Guy should be glad I didn’t fire him on the spot.

Draining my beer, I leave the bottle on the marble kitchen counter, then return to the living room. Ripping the plastic wrap off the rug I ordered, I unroll it so that it lays flat along the back wall of the room. It’s supple under my bare feet as I grasp the underside of the three-seater leather sofa and drag it on top of the rug. I step back, arms crossed over my chest, and give it an assessing look.

Lighter shades match with lighter shades, right?

It’s gonna have to do.

No short-term renter is going to complain for a weekend stay, and by the time I’m ready to sell, I figure I’ll toss what isn’t good anymore and hire an interior design company to finish off the rest—someone who can come in and doll the place up real nice and pretty before I put it on the market.

I’m just finishing screwing together a glass coffee table when the doorbell rings.

Like I’ve downed too much beer—even though I haven’t—my brain sluggishly responds.

Who the hell would be popping over here? It’s a good thirty-five minutes out of the city, and my neighbors, though friendly, don’t make it a habit of stopping by on sunny days—they’re all out on their boats or their back decks, grills sizzling, fishing lines cast into the canals.

Setting the hammer down on the cardboard box that the table came in, I push to my feet and head for the front door. I painted it a bright color, something I thought would stand out from the street when guests pull up in the driveway.Or look like the harbinger of nightmares everywhere.Could go either way, really, but like the sofa and rugs and wall decor, it’ll do for now.

Hand on the marble doorknob, I tug the door open and—

Her presence hits me like a swift one-two to the chest.

“Savannah? What are you doin’ here?” I kick my surprise to the curb. Prop my shoulder against the doorway and rake my gaze over her, from head to toe. Another one of those crisp button-down tops she seems to favor. Slim-fitting slacks. Peep-toe heels. Professional attire. I’d put my money on her coming here straight from the office—though how she even knows about this house is another matter entirely. Gut churning uneasily, I immediately ditch the laidback vibes, concern for her flooding my veins. “What’s wrong? Did something happen at work? With the hotel?”

Her grip tightens on her over-the-shoulder purse strap. “Let me in, Owen.”

I plant a hand on the frame, blocking her entry. “The look on your face has me thinking I ought to be planning a funeral. Are we talkin’ mine?”

“I’m thinking all that ink has gone to your head.”

With narrowed eyes, I study her reserved expression. Yesterday, she was ready to tear off my clothes and now . . . I tap my fingers on the wooden frame, working out my next words in my head. Try to choose carefully because the woman standing on my front porch is currently eyeing me like she wouldn’t mind tossing me to the gators in the canal.

It’s not the way I’d prefer to go.

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