Page 109 of Tattooed Sweetness

“Your fiancé?” Katja interferes in an agitated way that I’m not used to from the receptionist. “Does that mean that you’ve reconciled with that huge bastard… with that… that… guy?” She draws quotation marks in the air with both hands.

“No! What makes you think that?”

Katja snorts. “Why else would he have brought you here?” she explains, pointing at Mr. Bretschneider. “That’s what the boss just said.”

I nod apologetically in the direction of my supervisor. “Mr. Bretschneider just inferred that,” I correct her and turn to him. “The truck doesn’t belong to my ex-fiancé.” Did I emphasize theextoo hard? With a smile, I try to soften the impact.

“…I’ll see you April twenty-third, then,” the sonorous male voice pours from the earpiece of my phone.

“I’m looking forward to our appointment…” With the tip of the pen, I point to the client’s name, which I wrote at the top and in block letters on the notepad when we began our phone call. “…Mr. Akpinar. Finally, for our internal statistics, may I ask who brought us to your attention?”

Mr. Akpinar laughs, and from the background I catch a questioning female voice. He answers her in what I classify as Turkish. Then, with an exhilarated snort, he turns back to the phone. “Well, that was… Philipp.”

Philipp?The tip of the pencil I’ve already positioned for the note breaks off.Can’t I get him out of my head at all? Do I have to think about him all the time? That’s not normal anymore!Full of annoyance at myself, I shake my head and fetch a fresh pen from the pen’s holder. “Excuse me, I didn’t hear you correctly. What was the name?”

“Filipovic,” Mr. Akpinar says abundantly clear, and I suppress a relieved exhale.

After all, the names are similar—and I’m not completely nuts.

“Mr. Goran Filipovic,” my telephone partner repeats. “FromGoran’s Motorsmithin Billigheim. You know him, don’t you? At least, that’s what he said.”

“Yes, I know Mr. Filipovic,” I admit, making a note of the name. “I’m glad he’s so pleased with my advice that he’s making a recommendation. Well, see you April twenty-third.”

“See you then,” chimes from the line. “Goodbye!”

“Goodbye.” I hang up the phone, type up the handwritten notes and create an appointment in my calendar as well as a new folder for Mr. Akpinar and his installation company.

My fingers are already tearing the top sheet of paper off the pad to crumple it up, when it comes to my attention that I have truly written the clue-giver’s namePhilippovicafter all.

Can this be true?I quickly check the computer entries—I have inserted the name there correctly—and tear up the paper before I am tempted to paint a pink heart around the letters from Ph to double P in the manner of a 14-year-old girl with a crush up to her ears.

“Oh my God! I’ve got it completely bad.” Saying it out loud takes pressure off my chest—though it doesn’t really relieve the situation. Or even resolve it.

How long have I been deceiving myself into this stupid daydream of Philipp kissing me in the car? Two and a half—no, a whole three weeks already!

And do any signs indicate that he ever will?

I close my eyes and recall the scene this morning:

“Ciao-ciao, then,” I said after getting out of the truck.

“Bye.” He pulled the right corner of his mouth to the side, making him look even sexier than usual already.

Not to be caught hopelessly slobbering, I threw the passenger door emphatically into the lock.

With too much thump, perhaps? What if Philipp thought he was getting on my nerves, that I couldn’t stand him? Or—even worse—if he noticed that I couldn’t get him out of my head?

That is…headis verbalizing it nobly.Right now, when I think of him, it tingles between my legs, and at the same time I almost perceive his inherent smell in my nose.

And what about him? He doesn’t seem to suspect anything.

Can I dare to talk to Philipp? Should I take the initiative myself?

Sure, if I called Aunt Mareike now, she would encourage me. Even in my school days, she didn’t like the fact that I lacked the courage to flirt with interesting boys.

And how often did she roll her eyes later when I told her about cute fellow students whom I liked visually but also in terms of character? But they had never noticed me, let alone approached me. Instead, the prettiest guys were only too happy to be picked up by the biggest hoochies.

“What’s the matter with you,poepie?” she scolded me. “Sitting like a perfect red-cheeked apple high up in the branches of your tree, waiting for your prince in shining armor to ride up on his white horse and pluck you. Will he ever come? Perhaps it would be better if you gave yourself a jolt, jumped down and landed directly at the feet of someone who is not a knight or even a prince? But would carry you in his hands, as my Bert did with me?”

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