by Stacy Gail
“And peanut butter cookies.” Rena picked up a cookie crisscrossed with the classic fork-tine pattern and studied it thoughtfully. “Unless you made all these for yourself?”
“And three,” Mads went on determinedly, ignoring her sister. “I don’t think in terms of enemy.”
“You don’t?”
“No.” She said it vehemently so Serena wouldn’t guess she totally felt surrounded by enemies whenever she walked into House Of Payne. “I’m not waging a war against anyone, and I sure as hell didn’t ask to be in the position I’m in. I’m simply keeping my eyes open for any proof that could expose Sebastian Payne for the thief he is. That’s all.”
“I get that, but don’t you feel a little like a spy behind enemy lines? I mean, that’s kinda how I see you.” Rena bit into the cookie and made a sound of gastronomical delight. “You’re like the tattoo world’s version of Mata Hari.”
“Except I’m not sleeping with the enemy. And before you say it,” she added even as Rena opened her mouth, “let me repeat myself—I don’t have actual enemies. Payne is Dad’s enemy, not mine.”
“But that’s my point. Payne did everything he could to land you under his roof, so now you’re there, working for the dude who stole Dad’s art, and then made himself an international superstar. No one knows that he’s built a multimillion-dollar empire on the backs of others except for us, because we grew up hearing about it.”
“Boy, did we ever.”
“So it’s got to be weird, at the very least.”
Mads snorted as she slid on shark-themed oven mitts. “Weird enough that even after four months of working there, I can barely make myself speak to any of my fellow employees.”
Her sister’s brows shot up. “I thought you just said no one is officially your enemy. Why don’t you want to talk to anyone?”
“Think, Rena.” Grimacing, Mads pulled a tray of freshly baked snickerdoodles out of the oven, replaced it with another batch, then carefully began sliding hot cookies onto wire racks to cool. “What’s going to happen to all those House employees if I do catch Payne stealing art and calling it his own? Would news like that sink House Of Payne entirely? What if they lose their jobs because of me?”
Rena’s eyes went wide as she munched her cookie. “Oh. Yikes.”
“Exactly. Sure, they’re all artists, so that means they’d hate anyone who jacks original designs. But would they ever be able to forgive me if I exposed the legendary Sebastian Payne as nothing but a talentless fraud?”
“I never really looked at it that way before. It must suck going to work every day, not sure if you should make any friends. You could wind up stabbing them all in the back. I mean,” her sister added hastily when Mads grimaced again, “not that you’d ever deliberately hurt anyone like that. You wouldn’t. You’re a fluffy little kitten who’d never hurt anyone. Well, except maybe Sebastian Payne.”
“You probably should’ve stopped at the fluffy kitten part.”
“You probably shouldn’t work at House Of Payne if it makes you so miserable,” came the smart reply. “I still don’t get why you agreed to work there in the first place. It’s been months, and Dad is still salty about it.”
That wasn’t exactly breaking news. “I literally lost my old job at Phoenix Tattoos at InkCon, then got offered major amounts of cash to sign with House Of Payne, all on the same day. I had bills to pay—bills Dad wasn’t about to put up money for, so I’m done apologizing for how things shook out. If I can make up for his hurt feelings by finding something on Payne, then cool. But otherwise, maybe it’s time for everyone to accept that being a House Of Payne employee is my new normal. Including me.”
“You’re baking cookies for a coworker,” Rena drawled, waving her partially eaten cookie Mads’s way. “I’m thinking you’ve accepted it. Is he cute?”
So this was what a deer in the headlights felt like. “Uh, who?”
Rena made a sound of amusement. “Your coworker, and the look on your face tells me way more that you ever would. What’s he like?”
“He’s got an amazing set of eyebrows, and I can’t stop looking at his thighs.”
“God, you’re weird,” Rena laughed, finishing her cookie. “Is he single?”
“I have no idea. Remember, I’ve been too wigged out to get close to any of my coworkers.”
“Mm, but you’re thinking about getting close to the one with amazing eyebrows and killer thighs, because you’re plying him with your best cookies. Don’t deny it.”
“I’m not plying or denying anything. Sage just happened to mention he had a sweet tooth and that he liked cookies. This is my way of saying thank you.” And maybe seducing him. “But really, that’s all this is.”
“Mm-hm. Let’s just see about that.” With a smirk, Rena fished out her phone and began typing. “Sage…at House… Of Payne.”
“What are you doing?”
“House Of Payne is all about PR and putting the spotlight on its tattoos and tattooists, right? That means there’s going to be a splashy profile on this mysterious Sage dude, and I’m going to find it.”
Moments like these were why facepalms were born. “I told you, Rena, he’s just someone who helped me out of a jam last night.”
“Uh-huh, and that someone who helped you out of a jam is a freaking heart-stopper, isn’t he? In a surly, pre-cursed Beast sort of way.” Rena’s gray eyes widened as she stared at the screen. “Okay, here’s his bio. ‘Born in the heart of glittery Las Vegas, Sage McCormick’s unique style is as colorful as the neon lights of the Vegas Strip. Specializing in portraits and retro-style tattoos, Sage is also one of our premiere colorists. Recipient of the Best Portrait Design at Chicago Tattoo Convention two years running, Best Neo-Retro Design at Chicago Tattoo Convention, and two-time winner of Best in Show at Nevada State Tattoo Championship.’ Crap,” Rena muttered, her brows pulling together as she swiped for more info. “Doesn’t say if he’s got a wife and ten kids waiting for him at home. You’re just going to have to find that out on your own.”
Like she cared if Sage had a wife and kids, Mads thought later after her sister left. She pulled the last tray of snickerdoodles out of the oven and turned it off, all the while trying to push the thought of a gaggle of broody-looking Sage babies out of her mind.
He was just a colleague, she told herself for the countless time.
A colleague that radiated sullen sexiness like a panty-melting pheromone.
A colleague with a broad set of shoulders that Hercules would have envied, and thighs Michelangelo would have tearfully begged to sculpt.
A colleague that went into full-on protective mode when her freaky, nonblinking neighbor decided to make life embarrassing.
He was just a colleague.
Right.
And she was the Queen of England.
Maybe it wouldn’t be a bad thing to get to know a few House employees, she decided, grabbing up a tote bag from the closet to pack up cookie containers. Of course Sage would be the first colleague she’d try to be more friendly with since he’d helped her out last night. But it was high time she tried opening herself up to everyone. After all, it had been months since Payne had shanghaied her into working for him, and she hadn’t found a single instance of her boss stealing tattoo designs. Heaven knew he had plenty of opportunity. Not only had she come up with some of her best work since she’d been at the House, but she’d also seen some breathtaking artwork come out of her fellow House tattooists.
Yet not one piece of art had been stolen just so Payne could slap his own name on it and wallow in borrowed glory.
Maybe he’d reformed. Or maybe, now that he’d created a spotlight for himself and House Of Payne, he was too afraid of ruining his reputation. In any event, he clearly wasn’t the same thief who had taken her father’s designs way back when.
Since that seemed to be the case, holding herself back from everyone at House Of Payne was only making her miserable. As of today, she decided as she jammed the last container
of cookies into the tote bag, she was going to turn over a new leaf and extend herself to her colleagues.
And she’d start with Sage.
“I picked up a battery for your car and got it installed already,” Sage said by way of greeting when she followed him to his Jeep an hour or so later. Like he had the night before, he opened the passenger door for her and handed over her car key. “I also switched out your sparkplugs and changed your oil and air filter. Newsflash, Skittish—those things have to be maintained more than once a year.”
“Wow, thanks.” Her fingers curled around her key as he ushered her into the passenger seat, too bowled over to call him on the less-than-adorable nickname. “How much do I owe you?”
“I’ve got the receipt for the battery. The rest is on me.” A handful of seconds later he was in behind the steering wheel and starting up the Jeep with a muted roar. “You didn’t get bothered by that moron who lives across the way from you, did you? I wouldn’t put it past an entitled dick like that to take his frustrations out on you.”
She shook her head. “After you handed him his ass to wear as a hat, I didn’t hear a peep out of him. Which is normal, actually,” she went on in all fairness as he guided the Jeep into mid-afternoon traffic. “We’ve pretty much ignored each other until last night. I guess it’s like you said—he’s the shallow kind of guy who only wants what other men have. Not that you have me,” she added hastily, mortified. Her face went red-hot, and she could only imagine the neon-like glow she was probably emitting. “You don’t have me. I mean, I don’t have you. Wait, that’s not better. Let me try again. I mean that we don’t have each other—”
“Stop before you hurt yourself.” To her amazement, the surly man beside her busted out laughing, and as the light-filled sound of it filled the small confines of the vehicle, all she could do was stare. “Goddamn, you’re hilarious when you want to be. Have you been holding back all that goofiness and refusing to share it with the world?”
That drew her brows together. “You know something? I don’t think I’ve ever been called goofy in my life.”
“There’s a first time for everything, but I’d be willing to bet you’re crazy goofy once you let yourself off the short leash you’ve got yourself on. What I can’t figure out is why you’ve got yourself on that leash in the first place,” he added, sending her a look that struck her as way too searching for comfort. “Why not just let yourself loose and be whoever it is you are? What is it that you’re so afraid of?”
“I’m not afraid.” Laden with crushing guilt, maybe, but not afraid. “I just didn’t think there was a point in making friends when I wasn’t sure I’d be hanging around House Of Payne all that long.”
“Why wouldn’t you?”
“I didn’t ask to be there.” Grimly she told herself it wasn’t lying if she told him another kind of truth. “Hell, when Payne headhunted me at his very own InkCon, I kept thinking it was some sort of weird joke he was pulling, and I was going to be the punchline. Even now I feel like I somehow landed in the best tattoo studio in the world by accident.”
“You landed there because you’re one of the best colorists in the world of ink. Believe that. Believe in yourself. Believe that House Of Payne is lucky to have you.”
“Yeah?” Her hands gripped the leather handles of the tote she carried, while something so sweet it bordered on painful unfurled inside her. “Do you… do you mean that, or are you joking?”
He threw her an irritated glance. “Why the fuck would I joke about something like that?”
“Sorry, it’s just…” She took a deep breath and tried to find the right words. “I sometimes have trouble telling when people are being straight with me, or when they’re making a joke. I can’t tell you how many times I’d get upset when someone—usually my dad—has said something about my art that would piss me off, only to find out that it was just a joke, and that I was being too sensitive. Not that you upset me, by the way,” she hastened to say when he shot her another scowling look. “In fact, you did the total opposite. Now I’m really glad I decided to bake you some cookies as a way to say thank you.”
“You did?” That seemed to perk him up. “What kind?”
“Let’s see.” She opened the tote to sift through the various containers. “I’ve been up since seven and couldn’t get back to sleep, so I kind of went on a baking binge. I packed up a dozen each of coconut macaroons, peanut butter cookies, snickerdoodles, fudge brownie drops and your basic chocolate chip cookies. Which one do you want?”
There was a beat of silence. “What are you going to do with the other four dozen?”
She lifted a shoulder. “I figured cookies might be a good way to break the ice with everyone at the House, so I was going to leave the rest in the breakroom.”
“They’ll all get sucked up before anyone even knows it was you who baked them. I’ll take them all.”
She actually felt her jaw drop. “Uh, what?”
“Forget paying me back for the battery. I’ll take my payment in cookies.”
“Sage, not to be a smartass, but I’m beginning to think you don’t know what the word dozen means. No one can eat sixty cookies all by themselves.”
“I’ll pace myself, and I’ll hit the gym twice as hard to make sure I don’t turn into a lard-ass. Feel free to bake more for the breakroom, though,” he added generously when she continued to gape at him. “It’s good you’re thinking in terms of reaching out and making some connections, so I’m giving you a gold star for the effort. But those cookies,” he added, nodding toward the tote bag, “are all mine.”
She stared at him for a few more moments before she shook her head and settled back into her seat. “Don’t come crying to me when you’ve eaten yourself sick, Cookie Monster.”
“Like I said, I’ll pace myself. Now, tell me more about your old man.”
The sharp subject-change made her blink. “What the hell, dude. Where’d that come from?”
“I don’t put up with assholes taking potshots at my art, and I seriously don’t allow them to cover up that shit-eating behavior by saying it was just a joke,” he said with such vehemence she couldn’t help but believe him. “But from the sound of it, that’s exactly what your pops used to do to you. Is he still alive?”
“And kicking.” It took most of her strength to find her voice, stunned to hear him say aloud what a tiny part of her had always secretly wondered—if in fact her father hadn’t been joking at all when he’d critiqued her work. But he was her father. Why would he do anything to hurt her?
“I hope to Christ you don’t let him into your life now that you’re on your own,” Sage said, his jaw set as House Of Payne came into view. “Dude obviously doesn’t know shit about art.”
“He does, though.” The words popped out before she could stop them. “He’s an artist and tattooist, like me. Or at least he was, about a decade or so ago. He had dreams of one day opening his own tattoo studio, but for one reason or another he never made it out of the workshop he has set up in the backyard.”
“So he’s an unambitious hack.”
“My dad knows what he’s talking about when it comes to art,” she shot back, automatically defensive. “And if you don’t believe me, believe Payne. My dad was good enough to be hired at the little hole-in-the-wall place Sebastian Payne opened up when he first got started over a decade and a half ago.”
His brows shot up. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“So your dad and Payne started out together? Damn,” he said, whistling softly. “Talk about a small world. Does Payne know you’re the daughter of one of his old timers?”
She shook her head, kicking herself for saying anything at all. If Payne knew she was the daughter of Fletcher Daniels, she wouldn’t have put it past him to fire her on the spot. “I was only seven when he first hired my dad, and I never met him face-to-face. Payne wouldn’t recognize the grown-up me even if we had met.”
“Okay, fair point. But are you saying you h
aven’t told him that you’re the daughter of one of his first tattooists?”
“It’s important to me that I stand on my own merits.” And if Payne was actually guilty of stealing her father’s designs, he’d hit the eject button on her before she knew what hit her. “Please don’t tell him.”
“I won’t say a word, though I think it’s kind of cool. I just don’t get why your old man would poke fun at your work, then call it a joke,” he went on, frowning. “Most artists know it’s tough as hell putting your shit out into the world. I mean, if you were rivals, sure. Trash-talk happens all the time between artists who feel threatened. But why would your father want to tear you down?”
“He doesn’t,” she gritted out between clenched teeth. A sigh of relief burst out of her when he finally pulled into the rear parking lot behind House Of Payne. “Thanks for the ride. Enjoy your cookies.”
“Wait, Mads—”
But she was already out, slamming the Jeep’s door behind her.
Chapter Three
“Ooh, that looks yummy.” Scout Fournier, House Of Payne’s manager, approached Sage at top speed on patent black leather stilettos, a stack of folders and her ever-present tablet tucked neatly in one arm. As she closed in, he couldn’t help but notice her eyes were glued to the fist-sized coconut macaroon he’d just taken a bite out of. “Not to mention coconut macaroons are my fave. Did you just get that out of the breakroom? Are there any left?”
Sage sighed as she blocked his path, the purple swirl in her hair matching the purple leopard stole she wore over a black pencil dress that was straight out of the ‘50s. No matter the season, Scout had a Rockabilly outfit for the occasion. “Nope. In fact, I just got chased out of the breakroom because every asshole in there wouldn’t let me eat a fucking cookie in peace. I have to stand out here on the mezzanine like a moron just to get it down the hatch.”