Page 16 of Breaking the Ice

“A rose?”

“Still too big.”

He raised an eyebrow. “An ant?”

Samantha shot him a withering look. “Funny.”

“A flea?”

He grinned and she ignored him as the bus pulled up at the Chinatown stop and they disembarked. They didn’t talk as they pushed their way through throngs of people, the city pulsing and throbbing in the peak hour rush. White collar workers hurried to the subway to catch their trains while others entered restaurants and pubs.

The earthy grime of exhaust fumes mingled with wonderful aromas – hot woks, soy sauce and green tea – spicing the evening air, tempting even the most rushed commuter. Windows adorned with hanging crispy ducks and ancient herbal remedies competed with the more modern cuisine of Gloria Jean’s and the golden arches.

A few minutes later they passed the central fountain and headed down an arcade to the parlor. Samantha peered in through the neon-lit glass.

“Does it look” – she screwed up her nose as she turned to him hopefully – “dirty to you?”

“This is the best place in the city, Samantha. Chickening out?”

She ignored the latter part of his comment, homing in on the first. “How do you know?”

He shrugged. “I’ve had some ink done.”

“Oh, really? Ink done, huh?” She folded her arms. “Show me.”

“Another time,” he dismissed and dragged her into the store.

Ten minutes later, after giving Reg – the seven-foot, leather-clad, bearded tattooist who looked like he’d be more at home on the midway at a carnival somewhere – the third degree about method and sterility, she lay face down on something akin to a massage table. From their varied selection, she’d chosen an ancient symbol that was swirly and very feminine and best of all meant metamorphosis.

Apparently.Hopefully.

It was perfect and the tattooist had assured her it could be scaled down.

Nick sat at the head of the table, his hands on her shoulders. She lay looking at him with her chin propped on her flattened hands. “How are you feeling?” he asked quietly.

“Petrified.” Her entire body throbbed with the batter of her heart against her rib cage.

“You think this is scary. You should try facing off with a two-hundred-and-eighty-pound defender.”

“Thanks, but the cabbage soup diet and a tattoo are about as extreme as I get.”

His answering grin and squeeze to her shoulder helped settle her nerves. For a second anyway, until Reg switched on his machine. Sam reached for Nick’s hands, bringing them down to rest on the table in front of her and clutched them for dear life.

She squeezed her eyes shut and almost jumped off the table as the first needle injected its indelible ink into her skin. “How long did he say this would take?” she whispered.

“Thirty minutes.”

“Crap.”

Samantha let go of his hands to grip the front of Nick’s shirt. He winced a little as her fingernails dug in but didn’t complain.

“So, tell me,” he said. “Why now with the tattoo. Midlife crisis?”

Samantha flinched as another needle pierced her lower back. “Because Gary made me feel like Sally and I realized I’m a Volvo and Bec’s all for it and I’m tired of being boring old me.”

There was silence while she kept her eyes shut and gritted her teeth and he obviously tried to sort through her word salad but failed.

“Okay. Who is Gary, who is Sally, who is Bec and what the hell has a Volvo got to do with any of it?”

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