“There’s no shame in that,” he said. “Allie’s a nice lady. She helps lots of people.”
The blonde didn’t reply, just carried her box to the display counter and set it beside the register. She peered beneath the glass at the genital piercing supplies, and Ryan wondered if she understood what she was looking at. Probably not. He made his way beside her and lifted the lid from the bakery box.
“May I?” he asked.
She nodded, still staring at the studs and hoops on display.
“Any vanilla in here?”
That got her attention. She whipped her gaze to his as if he’d inquired about her bra size. “You like vanilla?”
“Is something wrong with that?”
“Nobody likes vanilla.”
“I do.”
She seemed to turn that over for a while before telling him, “Second level. You’ll have to take a few off the top to get to it.”
He dug through the German chocolates and caramel pralines until he found what he was looking for. The first bite was bliss, moist and light with just the right amount of sweetness.
“Mmm,” he groaned. “You’ve got to try one.”
For the first time, she hinted at a smile. “Hand me a triple fudge, please.”
It was chocolate that finally broke down her barriers. They leaned against the glass display case for the next several minutes, simply relaxing and letting the sounds of smacking lips fill the silence. When they’d nearly finished, she said, “Can I ask you something?”
“Whatever you want,” he told her. “I’m an open book.”
“Promise you won’t laugh?”
“I’ll do my best.”
She raised her last bite for show but didn’t make eye contact. “If I were a cupcake, what flavor do you think I’d be?”
The way she stuffed the bite in her mouth and got quiet told Ryan she was wary of his answer. Based on her earlier comment, she probably considered herself vanilla, a flavor she thought no one would want. Boy, she was sure wrong about that.
“It’s too soon to tell,” he said, gently nudging her with his elbow. “Looks can be deceiving. I’d have to taste you to find out.”
She giggled and blushed again. It was the cutest damn thing he’d ever seen. “What about me?” he asked. “What’s my flavor?”
She caught her lower lip between her teeth and studied all six feet, three inches of him, taking in his auburn hair, which was a few weeks overdue for a trim. From there, her gaze found the thin, silvery scar that bisected his temple and traveled down to his neck, where the tattoo of a snake’s head peeked out from above his T-shirt collar. She furrowed her brow as if trying to imagine where the serpent ended, then tipped her head and surveyed the swirling designs inked onto his forearms. Finally, she glanced at his suede motorcycle boots and worked her way up his thin, faded jeans to his brushed-steel belt buckle.
“Spiced carrot cake,” she decided. “With lots of sprinkles.”
Ryan chuckled to himself. He supposed carrot cake was better than fruitcake. “I’m curious about something.”
“What’s that?” she asked.
“When you visited Allie for a love charm, what did she tell you?”
The blonde didn’t seem embarrassed anymore. She shrugged. “To be myself. That’s why I’m here.” She peeked at him from beneath thick lashes. “Not that I don’t like sharing cupcakes with you, but what I really want is a piercing.”
Interesting. He hadn’t seen that coming. “What’d you have in mind?”
“I’m not sure. I want my outside to match who I am on the inside.”
“I can help you with that.” Ryan considered it the best part of his job. “What does the secret you look like?”
Her blue gaze sparked alive while a tiny grin lifted the corners of her lips. She pointed to a photo hanging on the side wall. It was a framed cover from Skin Deep magazine depicting a redhead posed like a vintage pinup girl. Pierced and heavily tatted, she sat with both legs tucked beneath her and smiled at the camera as if she had a secret.
“Kind of like her,” the blonde said. “I bought an old rockabilly swing dress from an estate sale a few months ago, and I’ve got the perfect red stilettos to go with it.” She sighed. “But I’ve never worn them. I don’t know if I can pull it off.”
“Trust me, you could pull it off.” God help him, Ryan could picture her in an outfit like that, and a jolt of lust struck directly below his belt buckle. He was grateful he’d worn his relaxed-fit jeans today.
“You think?”
“No doubt.” And if he didn’t stop imagining her in those stilettos, he was going to make his jeans too tight in the front. “What kind of piercing do you want to start with?”
“I’m torn between eyebrow, navel, or ear gauges.” She licked a smudge of icing from her mouth and made his pulse hitch. “Or my lip. What do you think?”
What did he think? It was hard to say, because he couldn’t stop staring at her pretty pink mouth. Her lips were parted in thought, practically begging to be kissed. She wasn’t his type, but damned if she didn’t turn him on. Ryan was half-sprung for this girl, and he didn’t even know her name. He wanted to see what she was hiding beneath that prim cardigan—and make her lose control.
He wondered if she would agree to go out with him. Couldn’t hurt to try . . .
“No lips and no tongue,” he told her.
“Why not?”
“Because it’ll be hard to eat for the first few days.” He smiled, then went for it. “And that means I can’t take you to dinner tonight.”
• • •
Oh, God. Did he just ask me out?
Joy’s heart bumped against her ribs while her face went up in flames. She hadn’t blushed this hard since her first kiss at the eighth grade Sadie Hawkins dance, but she couldn’t help it. Ever since she walked in here and caught a glimpse of the tattoo artist, her libido had been turning cartwheels. The word sexy didn’t do this man justice. He was huge and muscled and clearly waiting for a reply.
He smiled expectantly, those warm brown eyes moving all over her, and an electric charge rushed her body. Joy’s throat went dry. She should probably say something, but her brain had disconnected from her vocal chords.
He slouched an inch, seeming to think better of his invitation. “I hope I didn’t make you uncomfortable.”
Oh, he made her uncomfortable, but in the very best way. She couldn’t recall the last time she’d felt so alive. Strangely, he put her at ease, too. Some might find his scars and tattoos intimidating, not to mention his broad chest and the rounded biceps that stretched the short sleeves of his T-shirt, but there was a gentleness about him that shone through his expression and carried in the easy timbre of his voice.
She liked him. A lot.
The only thing Joy didn’t understand was what he saw in her. She was vanilla. He was spiced carrot cake—with sprinkles.
Still unable to speak, she shook her head.
“No, I don’t make you uncomfortable?” he asked. “Or no, you don’t want to go to dinner with me?”
She finally forced the words off her tongue. “You don’t upset me.”
He flashed a lopsided grin that made her go all tingly south of the border. “I know a place we can go. It’s a total dive, but they serve the best chicken jambalaya in the parish. What do you say?”
What did she say? That was a good question.
Joy imagined herself at a crossroads, standing at the intersection of two absolute truths. First, her family would not approve of this man, not to mention that he wasn’t her type. She tended to date J. Crew kinds of guys, and this man looked like he belonged on the set of Sons of Anarchy. But the second truth was far more compelling: they had enough chemistry to steam the ink off his skin.
What would it hurt to go out with him, especially to a
hole-in-the-wall restaurant where nobody she knew would see her? Didn’t the spirits of her ancestors say she should be wild and follow her heart? Because if so, her heart was thumping and swelling and screaming Yes!
Joy took the leap before she lost her nerve. “I love chicken jambalaya.”
The man’s smile widened, and a dimple appeared in his left cheek. His gaze brimmed with an excitement that fed her own. “Good. Then I’ll pick you up at six, right after I close for the day.”
“Can I get your name first?” she asked, extending a palm. “I’m Joy McMasterson.”
“Ryan.” He took her hand in a powerful grip that nearly made her combust. “Ryan Gibson, the owner of this fine establishment.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Ryan.”
“Likewise.”
They stood there a while longer, neither willing to let go until Joy reminded him of why she was there. “Should I start with an eyebrow, then?” she asked. “Since lips and tongue are off limits?”
“Sure thing.” He cupped her arm and led her to a display case near the adjacent wall. “I’ll warn you, though. Piercings are like potato chips. You can’t stop at one.”
Joy hid a grin as she scanned the rows of delicate hoops and bejeweled studs. She had a feeling everything inside this shop was habit-forming, especially the owner.
Chapter 3
That night, Joy’s hands trembled so violently it took three tries to tuck her gris-gris sachet into the back pocket of her jeans. She glanced at the bedroom mirror and frowned at her simple ponytail. She’d wanted to do something special with her hair, but she’d squandered the whole afternoon changing clothes. Since Ryan would be there any minute, simple would have to do. However, the same couldn’t be said for her skintight V-neck top. It showed too much cleavage, and she didn’t want to come across as trying too hard.
Though she totally was.
Careful not to snag the brand-new pair of hoops adorning her left brow, she peeled off her top and replaced it with a casual button-down shirt that matched the color of her eyes. Then she slipped into a pair of comfortable wedges and grabbed her purse just as Ryan buzzed from the building’s outside entrance.
Her stomach jumped and she nearly dropped her house key. By some miracle, she made it down the stairs without collapsing on her shaky knees, but stopped short when she met Ryan on the sidewalk.
He took her breath away, standing there with both hands wedged deep in his pockets and drawing her eyes to parts of him she shouldn’t want so soon. He was criminally masculine, and she wasn’t used to that. With the setting sun casting shadows beneath his angular jaw and picking up the warm tones in his hair, he made her insides hum with raw lust. He favored her with an easy smile that made her feel like the only woman on earth, and when his gaze traveled up and down the length of her body, she flushed everywhere it landed.
How did he do that?
“You look beautiful,” he said. “Folks are going to wonder what you’re doing with a guy like me.” His words were self-deprecating, but he spoke them with a pure confidence that Joy envied.
“Funny,” she said. “I was just thinking the opposite.”
“That I’m beautiful?” He pretended to flip his hair. “I’m glad someone finally noticed.”
Joy laughed and followed Ryan to his truck, where he held the door open for her. He did the same when they reached the restaurant, and even pulled out her chair when the waitress seated them in a quiet corner near the back.
He had underestimated this place in calling it a dive. Yes, it was small, holding no more than fifteen linen-draped tables, but the atmosphere was lively with conversation and thick with the savory scents of down-home Creole cooking. It was a nice change from the restaurants where her dates usually took her—the ones that required a jacket and tie to get in the front door.
Ryan dragged his chair closer to hers as the waitress lit the candle in the center of their table. His nearness sent Joy’s pulse skipping, so she ordered a drink to calm her nerves.
“I’ll have a house Cabernet,” she told the server.
“Iced tea for me,” Ryan said.
When the waitress left, Joy asked, “You’re not drinking?”
Ryan shook his head and opened his menu. “I don’t drink alcohol.”
“At all?”
“Nope.”
“Not even a little bit?”
“Not one drop.”
She chewed on her lip, debating whether or not to ask why. It wasn’t any of her business, but she couldn’t corral her curiosity. He didn’t seem like the type to say no to a cold beer.
The question must have shown on her face, because Ryan quietly admitted, “My parents were alcoholics.” He touched the scar that trailed from his temple down to the base of his neck. “It’s how I got this. When I was five, they tried driving me to school after a bender. We didn’t make it very far.”
Joy’s mouth fell open. Along with feeling a surge of sympathy, she couldn’t believe he was being so candid—trusting her with the kinds of details her family would have gone to great lengths to sweep under the rug. As someone trapped beneath her father’s image, Joy admired Ryan’s transparency. She wished she could be more like him.
“They died at the scene. I don’t remember it.” Ryan lifted a shoulder. “Anyway, some studies say alcoholism is genetic, so I decided not to risk it. No reason to load the gun, right?”
“I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay. Like I said, I don’t remember it.”
When her wine arrived, Joy didn’t want it anymore. “Would you please send this back?” she asked the server. “I’ll have an iced tea with lemon.”
“You don’t have to,” Ryan said. “All of my friends drink. It doesn’t bother me.”
But Joy insisted that she’d rather eat her calories than drink them, and she smoothly changed the subject to his shop.
He talked about how he’d always been skilled at drawing, and had taken an interest in body art during high school. After graduation, he’d secured an internship with a locally renowned tattoo artist and stayed there for two years before opening his own shop with a loan from his foster parents. Since then, he’d earned two local artist-choice awards.
“I paid off the loan last year,” he said with a hint of pride. “Now I’m fully in the black.”
From there, the conversation turned to Joy, specifically her job at the sports-rehab facility. Ryan wanted to know about the local athletes she had worked with, but there wasn’t much she could share.
“Privacy laws,” she said apologetically. “All I can tell you is that football players really hate my stretches. The bigger they are, the harder they whine.”
“And you enjoy this?”
“I love it.”
“Why?” He grinned around a bite of breadstick. “You like twisting grown men into pretzels?”
Before thinking, she blurted, “No, when I’m with a man, I’d rather be the pretzel.”
Eyes flying wide, she clapped a hand over her mouth while Ryan coughed and sputtered into his napkin. He gulped his iced tea, clearly trying to contain his laughter, but it was no use. In seconds, they both broke into wild chortles that drew the attention of half the patrons in the restaurant. Neither could stop. Joy held her aching sides, tears streaming down her cheeks, until the server returned with their entrees. Only then was she capable of drawing a breath.
Joy blotted her face, still unable to believe she’d said that out loud. On the first date.
“You’re blushing again,” Ryan said after the server had backed away. He used a spoon to point to a crushed tomato in his jambalaya. “Almost as dark as this.” She ducked her head, and he reached out to tip her chin. Once their eyes met, he told her, “I like that about you. I hope you never stop.”
Which sent even more heat to her cheeks.
They ate
in silence for the next couple of minutes, and Joy noted that as promised, this was the best chicken jambalaya she’d ever tasted—rich and spicy with generous chunks of breast meat and smoked sausage. Ryan seemed to be enjoying his too, judging by the way he bent over his bowl and made little noises of contentment. It brought a smile to Joy’s lips.
At one point, Ryan paused mid-chew and said, “Hey, I’ve been meaning to ask you something.”
She nodded for him to go on.
“Your last name is McMasterson, right?”
“Mmm-hmm.”
“Are you related to—”
“The senatorial candidate,” she finished, not surprised that Ryan had made the connection. Daddy’s campaign commercials aired around the clock. “Yeah, he’s my dad.”
“No.” Ryan used his napkin to wipe the corners of his mouth. “I was going to say Eric McMasterson, captain of the North River Steamer.”
Joy sat bolt upright and set down her spoon. Nobody around here knew that name—or that riverboat. Granddaddy’s steamer had been retired and destroyed years ago, despite her efforts to have it declared a historical landmark. “That was my grandpa. Did you know him?”
“Not really,” Ryan said. “I spent two weeks on his boat when I was a kid. My foster parents took me with them on vacation. Every morning your granddad would let me blow the steam whistle.” Grinning, he shook his head. “Never would let me steer the boat, though. He said—”
“The wheel is mine alone,” Joy finished, smiling at the memory. “He never let me pilot the boat, either.”
“Glad it wasn’t just me.”
“Definitely not,” she said. “He took his job as captain seriously.” But he’d let her sit in the pilothouse and wear his hat, and he’d always had room for her at the captain’s table. If she closed her eyes, she could still remember the way he smelled—like coffee and spearmint gum. She missed him, especially in the summertime when the river came alive with visiting steamers from up north. “Some of my best memories are on that boat.”
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