by Tammar Stein
A couple tourists enter the shop, cooing over the display of wine glasses painted to look like giant flowers.
Feeling both inspired and bemused at the idea of franchising Steeped, Natasha compliments Marianne on the attractive window display—the woman does have an eye for color—and as a way of showing thanks, mentions she’ll be back to buy those wine glasses after her meeting ends. She feels the weight of the tourists’ eyes as they glance at her and then the glasses on the shelf. The door closes behind her on what is an almost-guaranteed sale.
Chapter Five
There are no customers browsing or getting inked when Natasha enters Emmett’s tattoo parlor. As the lienholder, that isn’t good news. As an ex-girlfriend trying to keep in touch with her man, it’s great.
The shop, with its polished cement floors, blood-red walls covered in framed flash, and wide, leather-covered chairs, is grittily urban, but strangely peaceful. The ceiling fans turn slowly, creating the slightest breeze, a mere whisper of cool air brushing against her skin. The storewide sound system plays a thumping Latino rap. She only ever sees Emmett at the store, and there’s a weird Pavlovian response that happens when she enters it—a complete association of the parlor, and its sharp Lysol smell, with being together again. Her breath catches to be here again, blood surging faster in time with the beat of the song.
Emmett looks up as soon as she walks in, and even though the light’s dim and he’s at the far end of the shop, she sees how his expression stays flat, not exactly jumping for joy at seeing her again after nearly a year. But she can’t stop her heart from leaping gladly at his craggy, handsome face nor her stomach from dropping with disappointed mortification that it still hasn’t come back, that glad spark he used to get when he saw her.
Walking slowly, letting her floor-length silk dress flutter around her long, slim legs, head held high, eyes boring straight into Emmett, daring him to look away from her, she enters the shop as if she owns it. Which, technically, she does.
She lets her hips sway ever so slightly. The dress shows off a nice amount of cleavage; she looks hot and she knows it. Emmett knows it too. He’s looking at her. He’d need to be dead not to look.
“Hey,” she says softly.
“Natasha.” He nods. His voice is neutral, but oh sweet Lord, her name on his lips does something to her insides that nothing else does. Damn it, what is it about him? She swallows thickly. He could sell tickets just to enter the store and have him say your name. He’d make a fortune.
“How are things?” she asks. “How are you?” She wants to know about everyone he sees, every place he eats at. What he dreams of at night. Nothing about him is boring.
He pulls out a set of ledgers and Quicken printouts. She forces herself to fake attention as he takes her through the fiscal year. Okay. Maybe some things about him are boring.
The bottom line, as it has been for the last few years, is that the shop is solvent, barely. He doesn’t need a second loan. But he also isn’t going to pay back what he owes her early either. “And long-term,” she purrs suggestively. “Where do you see the shop in five years?” The thought of opening a tearoom in Hamilton flashes through her mind again; it would be so helpful to have running local businesses in common with him. With no false modesty, Natasha knows she’s a terrific businessperson and maybe when he sees her in her element, running a successful enterprise, he’ll finally see how well they’re suited for each other. Five years from now, they could look back at this as the moment that changed everything.
She rests her forearms on the counter, leaning closer. The position does amazing things to the front of her dress. Look, she wills him, look at what you’re giving up.
He shifts uncomfortably at the view. It’s the best she’s going to get because at that moment, a bell jingles and someone enters the shop. Without straightening, she turns to look over her shoulder, tossing her long, sexy hair and curving her spine sensuously. Stretched out like this, in her backless dress, her Japanese scroll tattoo is practically a walking billboard for what Emmett’s magic hands can do to a woman’s body.
A woman walks in—a girl, really. She enters confidently but comes to a stop when she sees Natasha. Wearing a pale pink shirt and a blue skirt with pale pink polka dots, she wouldn’t draw a second look on Main Street. Something about the way she breezes in bothers Natasha. She’s not here to get a tattoo, Natasha surmises, she’s here to see Emmett and wasn’t expecting Emmett to be entertaining company. Natasha smiles a predatory grin. She’s run into these little groupies before. Emmett can’t help collecting them like spare change, though he’s always kind to them, never taking them up on what they’re so clearly offering.
“Hello,” she drawls. “What can we help you with today?” It’s a cruelly shaped thrust and the girl almost stumbles as she hesitates between staying and fleeing. Run, little girl, run, Natasha commands. You can’t have him.
Emmett leaps off his stool and hurries around the counter to the girl. Natasha frowns, straightening. She’s never seen that before.
“Miriam,” he says, reaching for the petite girl, resting a large hand on her shoulder, “is everything okay?”
He knows her name and his voice rumbles with protective concern. Something twists deep in Natasha’s heart and the good pain of pushing on a bruise has suddenly turned to agony.
“Fine, I’m fine,” Miriam says, nervously tucking long, curly hair behind her ears. “I—I didn’t mean to interrupt. I hope that, I mean, it’s just that …” Her words fizzle out as Natasha casually strolls over and stands close to Emmett.
In her heels, Natasha’s much taller than the girl, almost as tall as Emmett, and she knows how well the two of them fit physically, what a striking couple they make. She stands close enough to feel the body heat coming off through his tight black shirt, close enough that it makes a visual impact on the girl. Emmett hasn’t taken his eyes off the girl, nor has he bothered to introduce them. But Natasha sees how Miriam keeps looking at her, how she’s wondering who she is and what’s her relationship with Emmett.
It’s bad news for you, little girl, Natasha thinks. I’m never going to be out of his system. And how are you going to compete with that?
“I’m Natasha,” she says, holding out a long, slim hand to shake. “I’m Emmett’s business partner.”
Chapter Six
Miriam’s face flames with embarrassment, though she can’t really say why meeting this person should embarrass her. Maybe it’s all that sexy-beast vibe Natasha’s giving off, like, if Miriam had entered a minute later, she’d have walked in on something hot and kinky. Reluctantly, Miriam reaches out and shakes Natasha’s hand. It’s icy cold, completely at odds with her confident, smoldering attitude. Miriam frowns. So Natasha is nervous.
“I didn’t know you had a business partner,” she says to Emmett.
“Natasha helped me get started,” he says, purposefully vague. “She has a tea shop in Florida, and she’s been a”—he hesitates, looking at Natasha and then back at Miriam—“an advisor and a financial backer of the shop.”
“Oh.” This beautiful, sexy person is rich too? Miriam eyes the door, wondering the best escape. “That’s … nice. How come you never mentioned her before?”
Natasha gives an evil glare before schooling her face to a pleasant mask. She sidles even closer to Emmett, slipping a hand casually around his waist. “Emmett always enjoys playing his cards close to his chest,” she says, somehow implying those cards include her, naked. “We go way back, you know. We dated in high school.”
Miriam’s gaze flicks back and forth between them. They make a remarkable couple, no doubt about it. Emmett with his shaved head and thick arms covered in tattoos, Natasha with her long, gorgeous hair, amazing body and that tattoo on her back. Miriam suddenly realizes that Emmett must have done it. She knows enough about tattoos now to know that it was hours and hours of work, first to design it, then to ink it. It would have hurt a lot, so many hours under the needle. And surely, Emmett co
mforted her and distracted her from the pain. Something cold and sharp twists inside her at the mental image.
Whatever is showing on Miriam’s face pleases Natasha because she smiles a satisfied smile as her hand travels familiarly down Emmett’s side to his thigh. Emmett, already stiff and uncomfortable, jerks forward as he pulls her arm off him and returns it to her side. But Emmett would do that because he would never be so rude as to fondle someone in public. It doesn’t mean he doesn’t want Natasha to do it. Just not in front of company. It’s obvious to anyone who looks at the two of them together that they have a past, a hot, sexy past that probably involved a lot of torn clothes. One could argue that he has every right to a past and a present and a possible future with Natasha; after all, it’s not like he ever said, Miriam, I’ve never had any women in my life, and I never will, other than you. She almost smiles at the thought. Her and Emmett’s relationship has deepened in the six months since Jason was arrested, and they’ve been steadily dating, but it doesn’t mean his life is an open book. Certainly hers holds a deep trove of secrets. Just because Miriam thinks Emmett is the most amazing person she’s ever met doesn’t mean he thinks of her as anything but a special friend, who’s always in need.
“I should go,” Miriam says. “I didn’t know you were busy, Emmett.”
Emmett looks frustrated. Refusing to look at Natasha to the point of rudeness, he reaches out for Miriam’s hand. “What is it, Miriam?” he asks, ignoring Natasha completely. His hand, callused and warm, envelops her cold hand. “What do you need?”
Miriam winces. She always seems to need something, doesn’t she?
“It can wait,” she says firmly.
Natasha catches Miriam’s eye as she flips her hair and strolls over to check out flash. Something about the way Natasha stands with her bare back on display, and everything it stands for, reminds Miriam of the way a dog pees on a tree to mark its territory. Lady, Miriam thinks, I might think you were scary if I hadn’t just met an archangel of God. You’ve got a long way to go before you’re in that league.
Miriam looks back at Emmett’s sweet, concerned face. Now she knows who called him at lunch. She hadn’t known that he had a business partner, but she can’t blame him for not mentioning it sooner. Who would have believed that Emmett’s financial backer was a hot young woman who’s clearly in love with him? Whatever business they have to discuss, tattoo shop or otherwise, there was no point for her to stay, but it doesn’t mean she won’t leave a scent mark of her own before she goes.
“It’s Natasha, right?” Miriam says as she heads out the door. Natasha nods, looking wary. “I think Emmett’s made me some of your tea. It’s really delicious.” She might be out of her league and totally screwed, but from the look of fury on Natasha’s beautiful face, Miriam knows she’s not without her own set of skills.
Chapter Seven
“God damn it, Natasha,” Emmett growls once Miriam is out of the shop. “Why do you have to be like that?”
“What?” she asks, staying on the other side of the shop. “I was perfectly nice.”
“You wouldn’t know nice if it bit you on the ass.”
She snorts as if that amuses her, but nothing about this visit has been amusing. The girl is gone, but that’s a tiny, insignificant victory. She’s losing him. He brewed her goddamned tea for this girl. Natasha makes a point of sending Emmett a small care package every few months—not often enough to be annoying, but often enough to count on. And he goes and brews this girl a pot of the very tea she sent him, a blend she had made with Emmett in mind, knowing he sometimes has trouble falling asleep. A Thousand Winks became the shop’s bestseller, and for good reason. It’s an intimate tea, meant for sipping quietly after a long day. It’s a tea that invites you to relax, to let go and open up. Natasha feels her blood pressure rise as the images flip through her mind: the late night, the shared laughs, the kisses they lean in to share. Emmett used her tea to get close to someone else. It’s a betrayal of the deepest sort: not only is he falling in love with someone else, he used what she gave him to achieve it.
The music in the store continues to thump along, the rapper’s thick accent making the staccato words indecipherable. The blinds are drawn over all the windows except for one, and the afternoon sun gushes through like someone’s spraying it out of a hose trying to flood the shop from that one window. She walks over to stand in the square of light, paying close attention to keeping her back straight, her head up. Dust motes glitter and dance around her. As much as she wants to hug herself and curl into a small, quivering ball of sadness, she won’t. She smooths her hair back and in the sunlight, her long locks glow like embers. Emmett flicks a quick glance at her and then looks away, jaw locked tight.
Emmett hadn’t been serious about anyone in so long that she’s grown used to the assumption that he never would, that one day he would realize she was the one for him after all. But something about this awkward girl has him enamored. Natasha can diagnose the symptoms quite well after suffering herself for so many years. Even if those two don’t end up together, the fact that he could fall in love again means he’s moved on.
She glances down, half expecting to see a crack running down her chest, her heart breaking and oozing through it like mucky sludge in utter humiliation. Visions of that second tea shop flash through her mind and she feels a sudden fury at how much she is willing to give and how little Emmett is willing to take.
“I’m serious, Natasha,” Emmett continues, heedless of her broken heart bleeding before him. He strides to the counter and starts closing the account books and stacking them. “I’m done. I’m not playing this anymore.” His moves are jerky and rough, utterly at odds with his typical cool. “You have no right to come in like this. I’ll pay you the money I owe you; I haven’t missed a single payment. Next time you want to see the books, I’ll email you the goddamn files.”
“I have every right to check on my investment,” she says bitterly. Nine years. Nine years she gave this man to come around. “You’re in my debt. I gave you a loan when no bank in their right mind would touch you. I gave you generous rates. The least that I get in return is annual visits to make sure you aren’t bankrupting me.”
“Oh, screw that,” Emmett says, his anger rising to meet hers, slamming the whole stack of documents on the counter. They make a cracking sound on the black marble counter that sounds like an openhanded smack. She flinches. “You have no right to touch me, we clear? I’m not your boyfriend—I haven’t been for nearly a decade. I’ve always been kind to you, even now, I didn’t embarrass you, but God help me, I should have.” She can count on one hand the times she’s seen Emmett truly angry and none of those times were ever directed at her.
Natasha opens her eyes wide and blinks. Nine years. He won’t see her cry.
“You’re not right, Natasha. I’m telling you this as someone who used to care for you a lot. You’re beautiful, yeah,” he says, at the surprised on her face. “You know you are, you’re sexy, but you are not right in the head.”
She turns her back on him, blindly looking out the window as she gathers her thoughts. For the first time in her life, she regrets her tattoo. She always felt that no matter what happened, having the tattoo bound Emmett to her. But now that she’s going to break with him, she doesn’t want any part of him with her anymore. There’s only one way to do it: hit first and hit hard. She hears papers rustling as he files away the various documents he pulled out to show her. He’s tidying up, he’s moved on in every sense of the word, but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t have any weapons left. The thumping beat of “Qué Onda Guero” gets under her skin and gives her that last push she needs to say what needs to be said.
She turns to face him. “You’ll be hearing from my lawyers,” she says, her voice steady, her eyes dry. Her hair and dress are perfect.
He looks up from the counter, his face blank.
“I’m calling the loan.”
Chapter Eight
At the newspaper office
, Miriam fiddles with a ceramic mug in the break room, heavily milking and sweetening her coffee, as if her ability to turn something dark and bitter into something sweet and creamy meant she could affect the rest of her life in a similar manner. Yeah, right.
She takes her coffee to her desk and taps at her computer, halfheartedly scanning through her emails. Her cluttered desk is full of scrawled notes, marked-up articles, and to-do lists in various states of checked-off-ness. There are two half-empty coffee cups with sludge that she’s been meaning to wash and an apple for later.
“Chief says Judge Bender agreed to an interview.” Miriam looks up to see the new intern, Craig Lang, standing by her desk, waiting for her to say something, his caramel eyes bright with excitement. Craig is the only one who calls the short and portly Frank Hale “Chief,” short for editor in chief. It’s obvious that the new nickname delights both Frank and Craig. It’s also clear that it won’t be long before the whole office refers to Frank that way.
“And you’d like to come?” she asks dryly.
He grins in response. Tall, talented, eager to learn everything about the newspaper business, he’s as opposite as an intern could be from the last one. Of course the last one, Jason, is in jail, awaiting trial, so it’s probably a good thing they’re nothing alike. She was nervous about having an intern when he started three weeks ago, but he won her over in a day. Craig’s skin is the color of a latte, he has sandy blond curls, and his eyes are golden brown. Golden, Miriam decides. He’s golden, not just by complexion but by talent and possibilities. Terrific student, talented writer, and he’s on fire when he plays basketball—which was the main reason he made it to Warfield Prep, the county’s elite private school that supplied all the paper’s interns. Hamilton might be a small town, but it recognized potential when it saw it, and no one could meet Craig and not think that great things were in store for him.