Page 15 of Single Mom's Bikers

“That’s it for today.” Rick closes his laptop. “Chase, stick around. Need to discuss that VIP client.”

Evie gathers her things but pauses at the door. “The quarterly reports will be on your desk by lunch.”

“Thanks,” Rick tells her.

After she leaves, Rick leans back in his chair. “Whatever you’re thinking, don’t.”

I consider telling him about the window escapade. Maybe we could watch together, and someone could finally verify if she’s putting on a show or not. I shake my head, dispelling the thought. That’s next-level creep—well, only if she isn’t doing it on purpose.

“Well?” Rick pulls me out of my thoughts.

“I’m thinking that’s the worst script work I’ve seen in years.” It’s not entirely a lie.

“Right.” He doesn’t believe me. “Just remember?—”

“She’s staff. She’s off-limits.” I stand, needing to move. “I heard you the first dozen times.”

But all I can think about is covering that tattoo. Erasing another man’s mark from her skin. Making something beautiful from the scars he left.

The gallery quiets as the afternoon fades. My last client left an hour ago. Rick is handling business at The Den, and Zane is probably chasing trouble somewhere.

My private workspace is more of a sanctuary than a studio. Flash art covers every wall, telling stories in ink and skin. The leather chair in the corner has seen more confessions than a priest.

The latest sketch takes shape under my pencil—vines breaking free from chains, blooming into something wild and beautiful. Just like?—

“Those for me?”

Her voice freezes me mid-stroke. Evie stands in my doorway, silhouetted by the hall light. She’s swapped the dress for a pair of jeans and a tank top that dips low enough to still show that tattoo. The casual look suits her better than the professional one.

“Just ideas.” I try to be casual, but my voice betrays me. She and I don’t talk much. “Playing with concepts.”

She moves closer, drawn to the scattered papers across my desk. Each one shows a different way to transform that name on her collarbone.

“You’ve been busy.” Her fingers trace one design—the phoenix. “These are beautiful.”

“Better than what you’ve got.” The words come out harsher than intended.

“Subtle.” But she smiles slightly. “You don’t approve of my ink?”

“I don’t approve of whoever butchered your skin.” I stand, needing to move. “Poor technique. The lines are?—”

“Show me how.”

Three words. Just three words. But they change everything.

She’s close now, too close. I can smell her perfume. My fingers itch to touch that tattoo, to feel how deep the ink sits.

“Here.” I reach for it before I can stop myself. “The script’s uneven. Whoever did this didn’t understand how ink settles.”

Her breath catches as my fingers trace the letters. Luca. That’s his name. The man who left her.

“Can you fix it?”

“I could make it disappear.” My voice drops lower. “And give you something better. Something that tells your story, not his.”

Her eyes meet mine. “What story do you see?”

“Strength.” My thumb brushes where the name curves. “Beauty breaking free. Rising from ashes.”

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