Page 7 of Chasing Sparks

A neighbor who a week ago promised me dinner—and dessert—but has yet to deliver on either.

I get it, or at least the rational side of my brain does.

Ash is busy with business, and keeping his clientele happy atBlackLotuskeeps the lights on in his upscale tattoo parlor. Plus, these aren’t justanyclients.

How do I know? Ash told me earlier today when he begged off our plans yet again. These women are not random inked hotties, desperate for some face time with Sparkwood’s resident bad boy.

They’re scouts for a major magazine.

Major, as inlife-changing.

Ash needs to take this meeting, so our dinner date needs to simmer on the back burner while I stew next door.

The worst part? I hate being this way. I’m not the woman who gets all tangled up in fuzzy feelings because a man delivers an over-the-top orgasm—or several.

I’m the chick who plays it cool. No man gets under my skin, making me all hot and bothered.

No man until Asher Hammond, that is.

He’s the first man I can’t get out of my brain, and apparently, can’t get back into bed.

Unacceptable.

Oriana Thorne doesnotgo down like this.

Fine, I’m being a bit dramatic. It’s only been ten days since Ash and I hooked up for a second time, right before he jetted off to Vegas for a tattoo convention. From the photos I saw online, there was a whole lot of partying and a crap ton of eligible females. Talk about some low-hanging fruit. The men of Black Lotus had a never ending buffet of beauties surrounding them.

In. Every. Photograph.

Do I want to know how many of them Ash bedded during those five days? No, because where that tattooed god is concerned, ignorance is bliss.

So, when Ash got home four days ago, I was champing at the bit to go out on a real live date. He seemed happy to see me, even brought me back a special edition copy ofJaneEyrewith a custom drawn cover—all because he knows it’s my favorite book. Then he informed me he was crazy busy playing catch-up, but we would have dinner together the following day.

That day came and went, along with a few others, and here we are.

I need a damn lobotomy.

I should be doing a million things, but here I am, leaning on the bookstore counter and straining to glimpse this evening’s entertainment like some love-starved voyeur.

Am I in love with Ash? No, with a capital N. But I am in like. Big time like. Those very fuzzy feelings I swore I would never catch around him? I have them bad.

And that isn’t good. Especially not with a man like Asher Hammond.

Too bad my heart doesn’t care what my brain thinks about the subject.

A flurry of movement in my periphery catches my attention, and I swing my gaze to watch as three women, clad in little more than lingerie, approach the entrance to Black Lotus.

They must be the magazine scouts, and of course, they have to be hot as hell. They each possess an edgy appeal, but one is obviously the leader. Her skin is decorated with colorful ink, and her hair is styled into a long, vibrant purple mohawk. On me, that hairstyle would look ridiculous. On her, it’s stunning—and I silently curse her and her future offspring under my breath.

See? This is why the idea of love with a man like Asher Hammond isnota good look for me. I apparently descend into madness—with little hope of escape.

There you go again with the L word.

I pause, realizing I’ve used the word love and Ash in conjunction one too many times for it to be a coincidence.

No, no, no. Get a grip, Oriana. Right now. You will not fall in love with a man incapable of the emotion.

Nope, I don’t believe me, either.

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