Page 21 of Exposed Ink

Without responding, I grab his arm, turn the gun on, and get to work on his tattoo. At first, he tenses, but after a few minutes, his body relaxes.

“It doesn’t hurt like I thought it would,” he says, watching as I work.

“People who’ve never been tattooed think getting one hurts. But in reality, for most, it’s more annoying than anything. For me, because I’m so used to it, it’s therapeutic.”

“What’s the last tattoo you got?” he asks, his question forcing me to stop tattooing him.

The last time I was tattooed was …

Shit!

I turn the gun off and wipe his arm, then stand, peeling my gloves off and tossing them into the trash.

“I’m sorry. I need to use the bathroom,” I rush out. “I’ll be right back.”

Before he can say anything, I storm out of the room, heading straight for the back office. Only before I get there, I run into my dad.

“Whoa,” he says, looking at me with concern. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing. I just need to go to?—”

“Stop,” Dad says, refusing to let me lie. “I thought you were in with a client. Did something happen?”

“No,” I whisper. “Well …” I swallow thickly. “He asked what the last tattoo I got was.”

Dad nods knowingly.

“I just need a minute.”

“Do you need me to—” He nods toward my room.

“No, I’m just going to splash some water on my face. But thank you.”

When I return to the room, Shane glances at me, his eyes zeroing in on my splotchy face. Thanks to my fair skin, I can’t hide when I’ve been crying.

“Did I say something wrong?” he asks, his features etched with worry.

“No. I’m just a mess,” I admit with a self-deprecating laugh. “Hence me not being emotionally available.”

Shane nods in understanding, and then he says something that completely shocks the hell out of me. “As much as I would love to take you out on a date—and I still want to—it’s clear you’re not ready for that, so why don’t we take a step back?”

“Okay,” I say cautiously.

“My name is Shane Evans.” He extends his hand. “And I would love it if we could be friends.”

I stare at his hand for several seconds, and then, against my better judgment, I take it. It’s warm to the touch and a bit rough. But for some reason, it’s also comforting.

“I’m Kinsley Bryson,” I tell him. “And you’re going to find out that I’m a really shitty friend.”

At my words, a sexy, boyish grin lights up his too-damn-handsome-for-his-own-good face. “Somehow, I doubt that,” he says with a laugh.

And as he shakes my hand, his eyes boring into mine and his smile lighting up the damn room, I ignore the warmth that spreads through my body, particularly my lady parts, forcing my own smile on my face.

Friends,I tell myself.

Great.

We’re friends.

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