She’d needed some space, and he’d given it to her. But he’d be damned if he was going to let her push him away entirely. Anticipation quickened his steps—every cell in his body perked up at the thought of seeing her.
When they rounded the corner, he saw that the lineup indeed started at Four Sisters Ink. Amy was up to something. What was going on?
With Andy-Randy stuck to his side like a thorn, Fred inched his way toward the front of the line, looking for her. As he neared the front of the line, he noticed that everyone was glued to their phone. Not unusual, but he managed to catch a glimpse over a burly man’s shoulder and saw what everyone was flipping through—black-and-white tattoo designs.
The anticipation he’d felt at the opportunity to see Amy was instantly tempered with the sudden flare of impending doom. He was pretty sure that, whatever she was up to, he wasn’t going to like it. Trying to hide his wince, he inched forward through the thick throng of people until he saw what everyone was there for—her.
Even with the sudden caution signs blaring in his head, he couldn’t help the knee-jerk punch of lust he felt just from looking at her. Today Amy wore a sorry excuse for shorts, the ripped and faded denim not leaving much to the imagination. With it she’d paired a pale pink tank top like the white one she’d had on yesterday and, even from here, he could tell that she was once again not wearing a bra.
He could have groaned out loud at the memory of those silver bars in his mouth, but he thought that was probably frowned upon in public. Or maybe not, because the young dude laid out in the chair she’d inexplicably dragged out front of her shop was clearly ignoring the view. His attention bounced between her gorgeous face, accentuated today with a slash of cherry-red lipstick, and the view he was getting through the front of her shirt as Amy inked something onto his chest. Before he could help himself, Fred had closed the rest of the distance between himself and Amy, leaving Andy-Randy behind.
“What’s going on here?” He positioned himself between the crowd and Amy. With his hands, he gestured to her entire sidewalk setup, but he was looking at Amy’s lascivious would-be suitor.
“Back of the line, dude.” The kid was maybe twenty-two, a hipster wearing skinny jeans and thick, plastic-rimmed glasses. Propping himself up on his elbows, he glared up at Fred, hyped up on the righteous indignation he’d probably picked up at his latest Save the Whales protest.
Arching an eyebrow, Fred looked down at the kid from his full height, smirking as the kid slowly melted back down into the chair. Pivoting, he turned his attention back to Amy...only to find that she hadn’t even looked up from her work.
“Amy. What is this?” He was genuinely confused. She has a perfectly nice shop right behind her, so why on earth was she tattooing someone in the middle of the promenade? “Why are all these people here?”
“It’s called an event, Mr. Vaughan.” Finally, finally she looked up at him, her lips curved into a mocking smile. “It’s a tattoo clinic. I posted ten simple designs on Instagram yesterday for a set price. Anyone who preordered one online can come in today and get it done, no matter how long I’m here.”
“But...why?” He looked from her to the empty shop behind her, then back.
“I was curious.” She looked up at him, and there was something in those deep blue eyes that he couldn’t quite identify. “I wanted to see just how many people I could bring in on a whim. Wanted to make sure that I wasn’t being a deadbeat tenant—you know, one who can’t pull anyone in here to shop.”
She jerked her chin across the way to the luxury luggage store to make her point. It was empty of customers, with a bored salesclerk perched on a sleek leather trunk as she tapped away on her phone.
A trickle of unease worked its way through Fred’s gut at her words, which seemed like they were directly addressing...something. Slowly, he slid his hand into the pocket inside his suit jacket, feeling for the crinkle of the paper letter he’d been dragging his feet on delivering to her.
Shit. It wasn’t there. Had she seen it? Was that what this was about?
He looked down at her, into those blue eyes that seemed to mock him for a long moment. Her expression revealed nothing, and after a minute he told himself that he was paranoid. This woman wasn’t one who stood quietly by when she was upset. If she’d read the letter, she would have marched up to his office and slapped it on his desk.
Wouldn’t she?
“Something on your mind?” She cocked her head as she looked up at him. That saucy smile made him want to run his thumb over the pillowy curves. “Ready for that tattoo, perhaps?”
“What time will you be done?” He took a step forward, deliberately moving into her space. He watched her chest quiver as she inhaled a quick breath, and he ached to place his mouth on hers...or elsewhere.
“Why do you ask?” Without looking at the young guy in her chair, she patted him on the shoulder to let him know he was done, then stood to face Fred. “Is this where you tell me that staying open after hours is against regulations?”
“It is against regulations,” he said quietly, reaching out a single finger to trace over the line of her cheekbone. “But I suspect that you already know that.”
“I might.” Her look was full of challenge, and it called to him.
“Have dinner with me.” He made his words a challenge, too, knowing that if he showed just how much he wanted her—not even the sex, but just to be around her, absorbing her—she’d say no. A challenge, though? He was pretty sure she’d rise to that.
“Dinner?” Reaching for a bottle of water, she lifted it to her lips, and he found himself transfixed at the sight of a water droplet that missed her mouth. “Why would I want to have dinner with you?”
“Are you really going to play this game, Amy?” Lowering his hand, he swiped it through that drop of water, then lifted it to his lips. “You want me. I want you. We both need to eat. What are you afraid of?”
She narrowed her eyes as she finished the bottle of water, then stepped back. She cast a look at the long line of waiting people, as if considering, before turning back to him.
“I don’t know when I’ll be done.” He might have been hearing things, but he was pretty sure he heard a wisp of disappointment in her voice, though she covered it well. “I could be up all night.”
“That’s okay,” he replied, stepping away. Andy-Randy had finally found him and stood off to the side, watching the give and take with confusion on his face. Fred, though? His thoughts were perfectly clear.
“I’m pretty sure you’ll be worth waiting for.”
CHAPTER SIX
AMY’S ARMS ACHED as she hauled her chair back into her shop. Her wrists were sore, too, her hands numb from the vibration of the needles all day long. She usually worked a full day, but those appointments were for bigger pieces of work. They were longer, with breaks built in.
Today she’d inked images onto small swaths of skin, all of it detail work. It had been a damn successful day, even more than she’d anticipated when she’d thought up the promo. The success, and sizable chunk of change now in her pocket, had been secondary benefits, though. And the fact that she’d demonstrated, quite nicely, just how many people she could draw into the plaza at the snap of her fingers wasn’t too shabby, either.
But at its core? The idea for the tattoo clinic had been conceived mostly to irritate Fred. To get under his skin. To kick back, a bit, at the fact that he’d been carrying that stupid letter around and she had no idea what he was planning to do with it.
“What are you afraid of?”
She could hear Fred’s words, echoing in her head. Getting under her skin.
She wondered what he would say if she told him the simple truth—that she was afraid of getting hurt. Maybe it was because her father had died when she was young, or maybe the fear had come from watching her sisters get their hearts broken. Rational or not, the panic existed, ur
ging her to keep people at a distance that she filled with sarcasm and flirtation.
The chair was the last piece of equipment in her cleanup. Placing her hands at the small of her back, she arched her spine to relieve the pressure of a day spent hunched over on her stool.
“I’ve been told I give excellent back rubs.”
Amy jumped, clapping a hand to her chest at the sound of Fred’s velvety voice in the darkness of her shop. Her front door had still been propped open, so she hadn’t heard the usual chime of the bells that she’d strung overhead. She watched, more closely than she would have admitted, as he sauntered into her space, his long body silhouetted by the faint glow of the moon outside.
“What are you doing here?” She frowned, irritated that he’d caught her off guard.
“Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten our date.” He moved close enough that she could see the smirk on his lips, even in the dim light. She could also smell the musk of his skin, the end-of-day remnants of his pricey-smelling cologne.
“It’s not a date. It’s dinner,” she replied archly, crossing her arms over her chest. “And it’s two in the morning. I had no idea you’d actually stick around that long.”
“Then you underestimate me,” he said, reaching for where her battered gray leather jacket hung on the wall. Pulling it from its hook, he held it out for her to slide her arms into. Part of her wanted to refuse, just to be difficult, but the rest of her went ahead and did it before she could think it through. “I’m a man of my word.”
After helping her into the jacket, he ran his thumbs up the nape of her neck, massaging away her stiffness with small circular movements. She moaned and leaned back into the touch for an instant before abruptly pulling away.
She wasn’t into lying to herself, so there was no point in trying to convince herself that there wasn’t anything here between them. An electric chemistry that made her want to close the door to her shop and drag him astride her tattoo chair again.
As she adjusted her jacket, though, she felt the crinkle of the letter, tucked into one of the inner pockets. The reminder was enough to have her get a vise-tight grip on her hormones.
They might have great sex, but Amy wasn’t into lying, wasn’t into pretenses. And Fred had succumbed to their chemistry and had sex with her knowing full well what this letter said, and that he was supposed to give it to her—she assumed, anyway. It was all the more reason to keep herself walled off.
Why, then, did she find herself closing up her shop for the night—morning—and following him?
“This way.” His fingers found an inch of her spine between her shoulder blades and pressed lightly, guiding her farther into the plaza, rather than toward the parking lot, as she’d expected. She felt the heat of the touch even through the thick leather of her jacket.
“Hate to break it to you, but nothing’s going to be open in here.” She cast him a sidelong glance. “Shops close at nine, restaurants at midnight. Plaza rules, remember?”
“Rules that you broke today. On purpose.” He returned her look. She drew herself up straight, prepared to argue, but the look on his face...he didn’t seem mad. He didn’t seem anything, really, except interested.
Interested in her.
“Whatever.” Original, Amy. She barely hid her wince. “Still, we’re not going to find any food in here right now, and I’m hungry.”
“You did warn me you might be late.” He moved the fingers that had been resting on her upper back, sliding them slowly down her spine, leaving a trail of heat in their wake. He guided her around a corner in the promenade, toward the massive fountain that marked the center of the plaza. “So I worked with it.”
“Oh.” Amy’s breath left her on a whoosh as she took in the scene in front of her. The fountain was usually off at night—at least, she assumed it was, because she’d watched it go still right around midnight one night. Right now, though, it was in full flow, the streams of water jumping and dancing and scenting the air with chlorine.
On the wide marble ledge that ran along the edge of the fountain was a red-and-white-checkered cloth—a picnic blanket. There was a basket, too, a wicker one from which emanated the delicious scents of butter and garlic. There was even a bottle of wine, already open to the air, and two glasses balancing on slender stems.
“I...” Nobody had ever done something like this for her before. Ever. “You didn’t have to do this.”
“I know that.” He cast her a sidelong grin before indicating the place where she should sit. “I wanted to.”
“Why?” She wanted—really wanted—to dive into the basket and pull out a big chunk of what she was pretty sure was warm, melty garlic bread, but she refrained. “I mean, yeah, we’re good in bed. Or the chair, I guess. But I haven’t been very nice to you.”
As though he could read her thoughts, he pulled the foil-wrapped loaf of bread from the basket, peeling back the aluminum and handing her the first slice. She held it in her hands but didn’t bite into it, her eyes instead fixed on him.
“Why don’t we just enjoy this meal? This moment?” He smiled at her, but she noticed that it didn’t completely light up his eyes. “How many fountain-side Italian feasts have you had, after all?”
“Oh, a dozen, at least.” She offered him a wry smile before closing her eyes, biting into the garlic bread and groaning. When she opened them again, Fred was looking at her with intention written on his face that made her mouth go dry.
“Make that sound again and we’re going to do some inappropriate things right here, right now, while Phyllis the security guard could happen along any minute.” The amusement curling up the corners of his lips told her that he might not mind that overly much. She wouldn’t, either, truth be told—she’d always had an exhibitionist streak. But she also knew better than to combine sex with the romance on display here.
She didn’t want the feelings that might come along for the ride.
“Guess we need a distraction, then, because if the rest of the meal is this good, I make no promises.” She bit into the bread again but this time kept her eyes open and took her time.
“A distraction. Right.” Fred swallowed thickly, running a hand through that thick, dark red hair until it stood up on end. “Oh! I forgot the last component to our picnic.”
“Last component?” She cocked her head, questioning, as he pulled out his cell and a portable Bluetooth speaker. A moment later, music wafted from the small device, and Amy dropped her bread right into the fountain water.
“‘Ordinary World’? Duran Duran?” Her mouth was dry. “This is my favorite song. My absolute favorite song. How on earth did you know?”
“I didn’t know it was your favorite.” He grinned, and it was the sexiest freaking thing she’d ever seen. “But I noticed that you’re always playing ’80s music. I, ah, made a playlist. To go with the picnic.”
She couldn’t do anything but stare. Romance wasn’t something that usually came her way. Lots of men—and women—wanted a wild night or two with a woman covered in tattoos and piercings and confidence. They never thought, though, that she might want—need, even—something more.
She didn’t often think that she did. And now it was being given to her by the man hiding something from her.
As Fred handed her a second hunk of bread to replace the one now floating in the middle of the fountain, she wondered what the hell she was supposed to do with that.
Maybe...maybe she should give him the benefit of the doubt. Maybe he’d never intended to give her that letter. Or maybe his family had told him to, but he didn’t want to, because it was her. He hadn’t mentioned it, after all, not even when she’d deliberately poked at him this afternoon.
Maybe...maybe she could let down her guard, just a little bit. They had chemistry. Maybe they could have more, even just for a little while.
“How’s your dinner?” Fred gestured to the paper ca
rton of fettucine alfredo that was good enough to make Amy’s toes curl. “I wasn’t sure what you liked to eat, but this is from Luigi’s. I have lunch there sometimes, and I just can’t understand why they’re not ever busy.”
“That’s the one by the north entrance?” Amy twirled her fork in the rich noodles. Fred nodded. “They’re not busier because they just rely on traffic to the plaza.”
“What do you mean?” Fred furrowed his brow and stilled, a forkful of spaghetti noodles frozen in midair. “The plaza does heavy marketing itself, to get people in the door. That’s why it costs more to lease a retail space here.”
“As someone who pays that higher monthly lease, I’m well aware,” Amy replied dryly. “But a smart business owner uses that as just a base. If every shop in the plaza promoted themselves even a little bit, this place would see double the traffic at least. It doesn’t take much. Social media posts about new items in stock, or contests, or special events. Every little effort to get people through the door helps out every other vendor.”
“Events like the one you held today?” Something in his voice had Amy looking up sharply. His face revealed nothing, but something told her she wasn’t going to like whatever it was he said next.
“Exactly.” Slowly, aware of his eyes on her, she twirled another fork full of noodles and slid them into her mouth, chewed and swallowed. “All I did was send out a newsletter to my mailing list and make a couple of social media posts. It took hardly any effort, but look how many people were here.”
“There were a lot of people, and that’s great.” She heard the but before it came out of his mouth. “But I guess I’m wondering why you had it in the promenade, instead of inside your shop?”
Amy was rarely embarrassed, and she rarely second-guessed her decisions. Hearing Fred ask her this simple question in a quiet, level voice, however, made her squirm a bit on the marble bench. She was pretty sure that because I wanted to annoy the hell out of you wasn’t the right answer.
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