Tattooed Sweetheart: Sweetheart, Colorado

by Snow, Jenika

  Tattooed Sweetheart

  Sweetheart, Colorado

  Jenika Snow

  TATTOOED SWEETHEART (Sweetheart, Colorado)

  By Jenika Snow

  www.JenikaSnow.com

  Jenika_Snow@Yahoo.com

  Copyright © February 2021 by Jenika Snow

  First E-book Publication: February 2021

  Cover Designer: Cormar Covers

  Image Provided By: Shutterstock

  Editor: Kayla Robichaux

  Proof Editor: All Encompassing Books

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: The unauthorized reproduction, transmission, or distribution of any part of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.

  This literary work is fiction. Any name, places, characters and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or establishments is solely coincidental. Please respect the author and do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials that would violate the author’s rights.

  Contents

  Synopsis

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Epilogue One

  Epilogue Two

  About the Author

  I’d always been a loner, the label of “bad boy” always following me around because I was tattooed and pierced—although, it wasn’t like anyone ever saw my piercing. People saw me as some kind of delinquent, when I was anything but, and they were too afraid or wary to try to get to know me. And as the years went on, I accepted that was my reality… until I had enough.

  So, with nothing else to lose, no family or friends, I decided to make a change. I packed up, moved to the Colorado mountain town of Sweetheart, and started my own business as a tattoo artist.

  Seemed like the perfect distraction, the ideal way to reinvent myself. And it was working out for the last three years.

  I’d been content with what I had and never wanted more than that. That was until I saw her, and I realized exactly what I’d been missing in my life.

  Because she wasn’t in it.

  Flora Harrison, owner of the brand-new coffee shop that opened up right across from my tattoo parlor, was everything I didn’t know I needed in my life. And I couldn't stop from inserting myself into hers until there was no doubt that I was meant to be there.

  That she was meant to be mine.

  If nothing else, I was persistent, and no one and nothing would dissuade me from claiming the woman of my dreams. Not even her.

  1

  Malkolm

  The first time I saw Flora was a couple of months ago. To say my attraction to her was instant was the fucking understatement of the damn century.

  She’d been stringing up patio lights outside the coffee shop she’d just purchased in Sweetheart, Colorado. Although it was already winter in Sweetheart, I had respect for her for not caring about the cold and doing her thing.

  I asked Ryder, a tattoo artist I hired last year, and a born and bred Sweetheart resident, who she was.

  I watched her stand on a small ladder stringing up those lights as Ryder gave me the rundown. He was smart enough not to hound me about why I wanted to know, and easygoing enough he had no problem telling me everything.

  Flora Harrison, twenty-four years old. Had lived in this town all her life. One sister, Tatum, and two parents who were as uptight as they came. Flora and her sister had also just leased the building across from the tattoo parlor to open up their own coffee shop, something their parents didn’t care for because it was a risk, and they weren’t all about that.

  Small towns gossiped, and Sweetheart was no exception. And over the three years of living here, I experienced that tenfold.

  After learning about her, I’d been unable to get her out of my head. I watched her constantly out the front window, and it got to the point where I was thinking about her when I went to bed, and she was the first thing on my mind when I got up.

  I scrubbed a hand over my jaw, as today was no different.

  Obsession. Infatuation. A sickness for someone or something that consumes you.

  Was it kind of stalker-ish on my part that I had no shame when it came to her? I mean, I wouldn’t deny wanting her if asked.

  Like right now, I sat behind the front desk of my tattoo shop, my focus out the front window... on her.

  Always on her.

  Fuck, I’m obsessed.

  I’d seen her arrive at work just an hour before, and although she was now inside, I could see clearly through the large front window at Just One More Cup. It was usually pretty busy, the coffee shop popular in town. And although most got their drinks to go, there were a few—the hungry crowd—that stayed inside at one of the few bistro tables.

  “I’m gonna go get a coffee,” I said almost absentmindedly to Ryder, who was busy tattooing a client. The buzzing sound I was so used to surrounded me. Most days, I could filter it out, the sound almost comforting after all these years.

  The tingling on the back of my neck told me Ryder was staring at me, and doing it pretty damn hard if I felt it.

  I looked over at him and saw he was watching me, his tattoo gun poised above his client’s skin, no longer touching as he eyed me skeptically. One of his dark eyebrows lifted, as if he had something to say but knew better. But the amusement on his lips could not be hidden—that or he didn’t give a fuck enough to try to hide it. It was probably the latter.

  “Again?”

  I narrowed my eyes at his question, which wasn’t really a question at all. I felt my scowl deepen.

  “I’m just feeling like a coffee, okay?” My words were tight, but they had no heat. He knew I watched Flora. It wasn’t like I hid that shit. “Do you want one or not?”

  He flashed a grin then shrugged. “I thought you didn’t even like coffee?” he asked as he went back to tattooing the man sitting at his station, a big, burly biker with a long salt-and-pepper-colored beard. The biker had his eyes closed, his expression relaxed, as if he were getting a massage instead of having a needle jabbed into his flesh.

  “I like it just fine,” I lied, my words a growl. The truth was I hated coffee. Couldn’t stand the shit. Yet I went over to the coffee shop several times a week, ordered a nasty-ass black coffee—nothing fancy—and sat at one of the tables. All to be close to Flora. All to just look at her.

  I’d stay there long enough that the drink would be cold by the time I forced myself to leave. And I was so unashamed by my obvious focus on Flora the entire time I sat there. I didn’t even care if anybody noticed why a big, tattooed guy sat at the corner table for far too long, never touching his drink, always watching her.

  I stood and grabbed my jacket; February this high in the mountains is frigid.

  “You want something or not?”

  “Yeah. Can you grab me an iced chai latte?”

  I looked over at Ryder and cocked an eyebrow, even though he wasn’t looking at me and instead focused on creating his artwork.

  That drink certainly didn’t seem like something an equally tattooed and muscular man would get, but Ryder surprised me a hell of a lot, so there was no telling what the man was into.

  He stopped tattooing, maybe feeling my stare, that dark brow arched again. “What?”

  I slowly shook my head. “Nothing. Iced chai latte. Got it.” I was barely restraining my amusement.

  “When are you going to jus
t grow a set and ask her out already?” My body tightened as I processed Ryder’s question.

  I didn’t respond, just stared at him. He was dead fucking serious.

  “Ryder—”

  “I’m just saying, you stare out the front window so damn hard—-and daily, I might add—like a puppy hoping the next kid will buy you so you have a home for Christmas.”

  I clenched my jaw and still stayed silent. I couldn’t deny it. I didn’t even try to hide it.

  “If you don’t hurry up and ask out whatever girl works at the coffee shop, someone is gonna beat you to it, man.”

  I was pretty sure he knew what woman I wanted, but he either kept his mouth shut because he could see I was on a wire edge right now, or he wasn’t going to be an asshole and air my laundry out to every fucking Joe Schmoe he tattooed.

  “I mean, maybe I should ask her out…”

  Yeah, he knew who I wanted, and he was treading really fucking close to the beast’s cage saying that shit.

  My hands were curled into fists at my side as possessive jealousy moved in me. It didn’t matter this was Ryder and one of the only people I considered a friend. Any male who even thought about Flora put me in a blind rage.

  “Oh, man, those sisters that own Just One More Cup… shhhit, gorgeous. Both of them. Wouldn’t mind taking the oldest out and getting to know her, if you know what I mean.”

  I watched how Ryder’s client’s eyes widened, saw the perplexed expression in Ryder’s face, and finally heard the low, animalistic sound that filled the shop.

  A growl. From me. Because I felt so fucking jealous and possessive, enraged that anyone wanted anything like that with Flora. Because she’s mine, even if she doesn’t know it yet.

  “What the hell?” Ryder looked at his client. “Yo, Dougie, I believe you don’t want to say anything about the oldest coffee shop sister, because it looks like Malkolm placed his claim on her and went all lion-mode on your ass.”

  Dougie looked between the two of us, his bushy white eyebrows pulled down low. “No shit?” He held up his hands. “No harm, no foul, my man. Didn’t mean any disrespect. I had no clue she was yours.”

  I huffed and scrubbed a hand over my face. I was losing my damn mind. I mumbled something under my breath, maybe a curse, maybe that I’d be right back. I couldn’t even be sure, because I was in a haze right now.

  I stepped outside and exhaled, trying to get rid of that territorial jealousy that was still coursing in me. The wind slammed into me as soon as I was outside, and I zipped up my jacket before shoving my hands into the front pocket of it.

  I made my way across the street, seeing the square of Sweetheart start to come alive in the morning. By lunchtime, it would be busy and packed. I knew tattoo parlors weren’t usually open in the mornings, but my two reasons for having these hours were: Sweetheart was an early riser, and because I’d kept hours that jived with the town, my business had increased.

  But the main reason I liked having the place open so early… was because of Flora. I wanted to be able to see her every chance I got.

  I’d gotten prime realty three years ago for my place, Broken Hearts Tattoo. Right in the city center, it just also happened to be across the street from Just One More Cup.

  It had been a risk opening up a tattoo shop in one of these little mountain towns, but I was all about breaking the mold and taking risks. Come to find out, there were quite a lot of people in this tight-knit community who wanted a little bit of ink for themselves. And I was just the guy to give it to them.

  And three years later, I was still inking up residents of Sweetheart.

  I pulled open the front door of the coffee shop, the immediate scent of vanilla and cinnamon, and the pungent aroma of rich coffee beans, slammed into me. I’d learned about Just One More Cup as soon as I realized my obsession for all things Flora wouldn’t dim. Not in the fucking slightest. It had grown, in fact.

  Flora and her sister’s coffee shop was known for their unique and artisanal coffees and unusual flavor creations. It’s why it was so popular. It wasn’t like the run-of-the-mill coffee chains that were scattered all over the country. It was a hidden gem—if you liked coffee, that was. Although I wasn’t into that choice of beverage, I could appreciate how badass the place was.

  The interior was washed in pleasing neutral tones, the bistro tables painted gold, the light fixtures these wrought iron designs that drew the eye in an aesthetic manner. On the walls were black-and-white pictures of people drinking coffee, all from different parts of the world, the countries they originated from engraved on little silver plaques under each picture.

  One showed two women enjoying espressos on an outside patio, the Eiffel Tower behind them. Another showed two men enjoying Turkish coffee in Ethiopia. Another from Portugal, where a man and a woman sat close together, their tiny espresso cups in hand as laughing children forever frozen in time in the image stood behind them on cobblestone sidewalks.

  The front counter—where you’d order—was in the center of the room, the shining silver machines behind said counter hissing and steaming as Flora and her sister worked their fucking magic. And it was magic. The way they moved in sync, as if a unit… the efficiency in how they created the orders in fast yet unhurried motions.

  They loved what they did; that was for sure.

  There was a short line of customers waiting to order, and I moved behind them, waiting, anxious to get to the front… to see her.

  And as I stood there, I felt my heart start to beat a little harder. I could see her, stared at a little tendril of hair that slipped out of her ponytail, the locks blonde, my fingers itching to touch them. I shamelessly checked her out. She wore a thick purple sweater, a pair of ass-hugging jeans that had my cock threatening to grow stiff if my self-control wasn’t locked down. It wouldn't last, of course, not where she was concerned. I popped wood because of her like I was a damn teenager.

  Her body was perfect, all womanly, feminine lines, her thighs long and lithe, causing images of them wrapped around my waist as I plowed into her to slam into my mind obscenely. She wore a cream-colored apron, but it didn’t hide the mounds of her breasts as they pressed against the material.

  It wasn’t until after the sound came from me, and the person in front of me looking over his shoulder to eye me skeptically, that I realized I growled once again. Fucking growled at those lewd images and thoughts about Flora.

  I cleared my throat and gave him a tight-lipped smile, breathing out slowly when he faced forward and moved up in line.

  If wanting her, obsessing about her, was a sickness… I never wanted to be healed from it.

  2

  Flora

  “He’s baaack.”

  I cut a glance at my sister, Tatum, and although she hadn’t said his name, I knew who she was talking about.

  Oh, I know, all right.

  “Tatum,” I hissed, letting my annoyance sift through my voice. “Keep your voice down.”

  The coffee shop I owned with my sister had been a gamble, especially in the small mountain town of Sweetheart, Colorado. Most of the residents were older, and their caffeine choices included only two. Straight to the point, as in darker than hell and bitter to boot... the kind that put hair on your chest, or having so much cream in it the color was damn near white, coupled with copious amounts of sugar that your teeth hurt after one sip.

  But that gamble was—so far—working better than we had ever dreamed.

  I worked on making a cappuccino, trying not to stare at him, although I felt his gaze on me. I’d met Malkolm Taylor a couple months back, right around the time Tatum and I opened up the coffee shop. I had this instant attraction to him despite saying only a few professional and friendly words.

  The inked-up, big, and muscular guy who owned Broken Hearts Tattoo parlor had come across as a gentle giant to me. Although he’d been a Sweetheart resident for only the last three years, I instantly felt like I’d known him for far longer.

  I felt this intens
e electricity move between us instantly. But I pushed any and all attraction—the first real and only desire I’d ever had toward a man—away, because it wasn’t a priority.

  Tatum and I opened up Just One More Cup, because it was a passion of ours. We drained our savings, went against our parents’ wishes and how they thought we were making a mistake and how we’d fail, but for the last couple of months, the coffee shop soared in popularity.

  There wasn’t a day that we weren’t packed, the steady flow of bodies making me feel proud that my sister and I had taken that chance and followed through with a dream—a dream to open up our own place together, to be owners of something that was ours.

  We were born and bred Sweetheart residents. But I’d always kept to myself, which I guess was why I never really met Malkolm until recently.

  Although Tatum was the complete opposite of me socially, her extrovert attitude being the face of the shop, my introvert-self did the behind-the-scenes things with the business aspect of it all. We were this yin and yang, working perfectly together.

  I hissed out as steam from the frother scalded my hand. My focus was elsewhere—on Malkolm more specifically—or I wouldn’t have been so absentminded with my task.

  “You good?” Tatum asked in between making an order.

  “Yeah, I’m good.” Plus, it wasn’t like I hadn’t burned myself plenty of times, but this particular time was simply because my mind was on Malkolm and nothing else.

  “I have to go in the back real quick,” Tatum said, and I gritted my teeth, because I saw the way she stepped away from the cash register exactly at the opportune time that Malkolm was ready to place his order.