Page 22 of Ghost Of You

Pulling away, I see her flushed cheeks and hear the announcement over the speaker. “Ladies and gentlemen, please take your seats. The show is about to begin.”

“That’s our cue,” she says, smiling at me.

“Looks like it,” I reply.

“Round three when we get home?” she asks, a teasing glint in her eyes.

“Definitely,” I reply, pressing a quick kiss to her lips. “I don’t plan on you walking tomorrow.”

Chapter ten

Present

Aknock on the door frame startles me and brings me out of memory lane. I glance up, half-expecting to see a ghost from the past, but it's only Maeve standing there in all her fiery glory.

Maeve, with her long locks of wavy, deep auburn hair tied up into a ponytail and two loose pieces framing her face, looks at me with her ash-grey eyes like she's about to either start a fight or drop some heavy news. I've known Maeve for the last six years, and in that time, the woman has been as constant as a tattoo needle buzzing in your ear. She looks like she came out of the womb with winged eyeliner and a nude lip, eyebrows on point, and a nose ring that makes her seem both approachable and intimidating—like a punk rock fairy godmother.

The only thing that’s changed over the years is her ongoing collection of tattoos. She's like me—covered head to toe in black and grey work—but unlike me, she’s still got a few blank spaces that she’s probably saving for when she figures out what the hell to do with them. I imagine she has some crazy scheme likegetting a full-blown map of Middle Earth on her chest. But who knows?

Maeve is one of the first tattooists we hired when we opened the shop, and her artwork is like a fever dream on acid—wild, colourful, and somehow still technically perfect. Her room is decorated like Barbie herself threw up pink all over it, with rare and expensive Barbies boxed up on the shelves. I swear one of them cost more than my car. Every time I see them, I half-expect them to come alive and start critiquing my ink choices.

Maeve leans against the door frame with her arms crossed and gives me a weak smile, which, in Maeve language, means something’s up. “How are you, Killian?” she asks, her voice unusually soft, like she’s trying not to wake a sleeping dragon.

I smile back, trying to match her tone. “Good, you? Anything new?” I ask, already bracing myself for whatever she’s about to unload.

She sighs deeply, like she’s been carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders. “Nothing new or worth talking about. I've had clients coming out of my ears the past month. Also, you look well.”

“I feel good,” I say, genuinely meaning it. “I’m back at work, I have a beautiful fiancée, and a child on the way. Life’s good, Maeve. Really good.”

Her smile fades faster than a cheap tattoo in the sun, and before I can ask what’s wrong, Ethan appears next to her, swaggering in like he owns the place. And honestly, with that ridiculous mop of golden hair, he might as well.

“Goldilocks,” Maeve says, her eyes scanning him up and down like she’s appraising a questionable piece of art.

“Hello to you too, Firecracker. I’ll take Goldilocks over dickhead any day of the week,” Ethan shoots back with a grin that suggests he’s already mentally undressing her.

Maeve tilts her head, pretending to think. “I guess I'll have to be more creative next time,” she says, her tone flat, but her eyes glittering with mischief.

Ethan raises an eyebrow. “Don't have a client to tattoo?”

“Not got another girl to disappoint by sleeping with them? Or have they finally realised how much of a dick you are?” Maeve fires back, and I swear I see Ethan’s grin falter for a split second.

Ethan chuckles, trying to regain his composure. “Oh, Maeve,” he says with a smug smile that usually works on everyone but her. “I'm flattered you think I have another girl lining up to sleep with me. I’ll take it as a compliment.”

She huffs and rolls her eyes so hard I’m surprised they don’t get stuck in the back of her head. "Don’t flatter yourself," she mumbles, clearly unimpressed.

My eyes bounce from one to the other, trying to keep up with the rapid-fire banter. From the way Maeve’s lips are pursed, you’d think she’s chewing on something sour.

"We both know I gave you the best night of your life," Ethan says, his voice dripping with arrogance as he leans in slightly, almost daring her to disagree.

Maeve scoffs so loudly it echoes. "You wish," she mutters.

"I see you're both getting along better than usual," I say, trying to diffuse the tension with some sarcasm.

Maeve doesn’t miss a beat. "He might have been the shittiest shag I've ever had," she says, turning to look at Ethan with an expression that’s part pity, part disgust. "No offence."

Ethan shrugs, still smiling. "None—" he starts to say, then the words catch up to him. “Hey!” He gapes at her, genuinely offended now.

Maeve laughs, a genuine, belly-deep laugh that’s so contagious, I almost join in. "We're still work colleagues," she says, waving a hand as if that should excuse everything.

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