CRAZY FOR YOU: An Enemies to Lovers Romance (Material Girls Book 3)

by Sophia Henry

  Those drop-ins were fun and laid back, but this trip is different because there’s an unspoken pressure. Every artist here knows the shop owner requested me because of the work I do. They know my schedule filled up fast.

  That’s gotta be why my nerves are shredded. I keep thinking that the guys in the shop believe I’m this big-headed artist who’s too good for them. It sucks to let what other people think get to me, but I do because all of this is so new. I know I’m good at what I do, but when other people start recognizing it, it’s a head trip.

  Still, I need to suppress the self-doubt and embrace the confident air I usually carry. Not arrogance—but the faked confidence I use every day to keep my head in the game. If I listen to the devil on my shoulder telling me I’m not as good as people think I am, I’d never get up for work in the morning.

  Thankfully, my first appointment is a rad girl who wants one of the jeweled pieces I’m known for. Being in my comfort zone eases my anxiety and takes my mind off the chilly vibe in the shop. The rest of the day goes pretty smooth. My clients have been excited and happy with the outcome of their tattoos.

  After finishing my last client, Kevin, the shop manager asks me to sweep and restock the supply drawers. I’m totally cool with helping out. Everyone back home chips in with whatever is necessary to keep the place running smooth—especially when it’s busy.

  When the bell signaling someone entered the shop rings, I look up to find Zayne standing at the counter in a long, black, trench coat looking like a sexy, private investigator from film noir. He looks so good, I have the urge to ask him to frisk me, but that’s probably not an HR friendly request. I should tone down the flirtation, but he’s so damn sexy, especially now that he’s not biting my head off.

  “What is she doing?” I hear Zayne ask.

  “We told her the newest person in the shop has to water the plants,” he responds.

  “But—” Zayne looks around the room as if confirming what he already knows before speaking. “They’re fake.”

  “A shower a day keeps the allergies away, I say, spinning around, holding the watering can toward him as if I’m about to sprinkle him next. “Have you showered yet today, Zayne?”

  He doesn’t answer, just stares at me with wide eyes and a small smile.

  “Yo, Zayne!”

  He strides over to Marek Amazi’s station, where the artist shades a piece on his clients’ ribcage. “How’s it going?”

  “Can’t complain,” he says, returning his attention to his client. “I saw Louis in Moscow. He seemed really preoccupied.”

  “Yeah.” Zayne wheels a chair from an empty station over and sits down next to him. “His wife is about to drop twins, so I think he was worried about her, ya know?”

  “That explains why we’re getting a rare visit from you!”

  “Yup. I get to play tour manager.”

  Marek laughs. “How’s the Jag? You taking her out on the track while you’re here?”

  “What track?” I ask, hoping it doesn’t seem too nosy. Marek hasn’t spoken to me all day, so I’m thankful to have Zayne here to help me weasel my way into a conversation. Neither of them seems annoyed that I’ve butted in.

  “A racetrack where you drive cars around,” Zayne answers.

  “Like go-karting?”

  Marek laughs. “You need to take her, man.” He elbows Zayne. “I know Z’s got you booked solid this week, but does he give you any free time between shops?”

  “Louis set up her schedule.” Zayne raises his hands as if to say he had nothing to do with how busy I am this month. Maybe he didn’t, but he sure rides me hard about it.

  “Dude, you don’t even know!” I say, setting the watering can down on the counter. “They even had me scheduled for breakfast shit every day, but Zayne lets me sleep in now. He saw how cranky I was without all the sleep I need.”

  “Oh, damn!” Marek laughs. “You got them claws out didn’t you, Em?”

  “She went beast mode,” Zayne deadpans. “Do you know how scary it is when tiny, little fairy of a thing like her goes beast mode?”

  “But see how refreshed I look?” I place both hands under my chin and spin around.

  “You ready?” Zayne asks, rising from the chair and sliding it back in place.

  I nod and follow him toward the door, grabbing my bag from a hook on the wall near the station I’m set up at, and calling goodbye as we leave.

  A steady rain falls on the sidewalk and road, creating deep puddles in potholes. While we’re still under the awning in front of the shop, Zayne pulls his collar up and holds it closed around his neck.

  He glances at me. “Don’t you have a coat?”

  “Yeah! I have a really rad raincoat. It’s black and see-through with this cool leopard pattern. It’s hard to explain,” I tell him. “But I didn’t bring it on the trip.”

  “Umbrella?” he asks, raising his eyebrows in hope.

  “I don’t even own an umbrella,” I admit. “I’ll just hold my bag over my head and run. No worries. Let’s do this!” I lift my messenger bag over my head and lean forward, ready to run when he gives the word.

  Instead of giving the word, he shrugs out of his coat and hands it to me. “Here.”

  “No, Zayne, I can’t take—”

  “Put the coat on before you freeze,” he commands.

  The tone of his voice tells me now is not the time for a smart-ass comment or argument, so I say, “Thank you,” and slip into the jacket. Because he’s so much taller than I am, the hem hits the ground. But it’s warm, and it smells like bergamot, so I snuggle into it before following him as he dashes to the rental car.

  “Anywhere special you want to go for dinner?” Zayne asks once we’re tucked inside.

  “I read about this place called Moscow Tea Time that’s supposed to be amazing. And they have vegan options. Wanna give it a try?”

  “I’m down,” he agrees. “Out of all the vegan options in town, why a Russian inspired place?”

  “I’m a Russophile.” I shrug my left arm out of his jacket, letting him see the colorful matryoshka—Russian nesting dolls— opened up and spilling down your arm from shoulder to wrist

  “I noticed that. It’s gorgeous work,” he says, eyeing my tattoo before flipping on the heater full blast. The wind and rain brought a chill that makes it feel colder than it is. “It’s quite clever to have the entire set of dolls. I’ve only ever seen people with one.”

  “Thanks, Zayne.” I blush at his compliment. I’ve never seen a tattoo like it either, which was part of the reason I wanted it. “It’s one of my favorite tattoos.”

  “How does a Southern girl become a Russophile? Is there a big Russian population in Charlotte?”

  “Ummmm.” I pull his coat back up over my arm and wrap it around my body. I don’t get embarrassed often, but the reason I became enamored in Russian culture is ridiculous. I need to come up with a better story.

  “Come on,” he nudges me with his elbow. “You know you can’t keep quiet.”

  I laugh because he’s right. “I’m going to preface this by saying, I was young and my hormones were going crazy and all that.”

  “Ooooohhh.” He slaps the steering wheel with both hands. “This is gonna be good.”

  “I had a crush on Stan,” I say quickly, holding my breath as I wait for Zayne’s reaction.

  “Stan Lee? Stan—?" He asks, completely clueless.

  “Stan! Stan Rybakov—my boss!” I say in a rush. “It was a flash crush—gone as quickly as it came about. I’m not into the whole love-the-person-who-hurts-you-most kind of relationship.”

  He tightens his grip on the steering wheel and a vein in his neck strains against his skin. “He hurt you?”

  “No!” I shake my head fervently. “Never. I just meant, he was really hard on me. A slave driver.”

  “Gotcha,” he nods. “Did you two ever—ya know?”

  “Oh my gosh! No way!” I cover my face with my hands. “I could never. He’s—he
’s Stan. I never even told him I ever had a crush on him.”

  Zayne laughs at my reaction. “It makes sense that you would feel some kind of attraction. You were young. He was your mentor. We’ve all crushed on someone in a position of power some point in our lives.”

  He’s right. I didn’t interact with my father during most of my formative teenage years. During that time, I looked up to Stan—a Russian ex-con, turned tattooer who rarely showed emotion and rode me hard when I was his apprentice.

  Which is also what my father did when I tried to work for him.

  It’s also what Zayne does.

  Though we’re equals on this trip, it seems like he’s a position of power because he’s older than I am. He’s also direct and demanding—just like Stan and my father. The only difference is it’s more sexy than annoying. Then again, I’ve always liked being told what to do.

  Which probably goes back to needing direction and a father figure…

  Ugh! I’m so pathetically Freudian.

  Upon entering, Moscow Tea Time, I’m disappointed with the decor. It doesn’t have the grandeur I’d built up in my head when I read about it. Though it’s rich in beautiful mahogany and pristine white tablecloths, the entire place seems dated and a bland. Hopefully, the food overshadows the space.

  Once we’ve ordered, I decide to open up to Zayne about the anxiety that’s been gnawing at me since I stepped in the shop this morning. It would be easier to talk to Louis about it since there’s a better chance he’d understand—or empathize, but Zayne’s all I have. I’ve got to talk to someone because if I keep the feelings inside, they’ll continue to affect my mood and I won’t be able to focus on the reason I’m here.

  “They hate me, Zayne,” I blurt without a lead into the conversation.

  “What?” he asks lifting his eyes to mine. “Who?”

  “The guys in the shop. They don’t talk to me. It’s like they’re mad at me and I don’t know why. I walked in the door to silence and evil looks.”

  “Evil looks?” he asks.

  I shrug and correct myself. “Unaffected looks.”

  “Not everyone is extroverted, Em. I mean, some people like to put their head down and do their shit,” he offers.

  He’s trying to be helpful, but he doesn’t get it. There were weird vibes all day like the other artists were pissed I was there. Why would they invite me to the shop if they didn’t want me?

  “Please don’t take what I’m about to say the wrong way, Zayne. I don’t want you to think I’m not appreciative of this opportunity.”

  “I won’t.” He places his hand over mine, which I would have backed away from last week, but seems normal now. I appreciate the comforting touch, reassuring me that he’s on my side.

  “There’s this weird vibe, like—I don’t know—like they don’t think I’m good enough to be on Ambassador Pro Team and be in their shop as a guest artist. Why aren’t they the ones getting sponsored? Who the hell am I?”

  Insecurity seeps out of every word, and as soon as it leaves my mouth, I immediately understand that it’s not the people in the shop or the vibe of the shop, it’s me against myself. I need a pep talk right now. The kind I’d usually get from Liz if I were back home. Maybe I need to call her to ground me again.

  “Marek seemed pretty cool while I was there. I didn’t sense any bad vibes,” Zayne says carefully.

  “Yeah, you’re right,” I say quickly. “Never mind. I’m sorry I said anything.”

  “Please don’t shut down. I’m not denying what you feel; I’m trying to figure out how to help. Did anyone say anything to you?”

  “No.” I bite my lip.

  “Do you feel weird about being on the Pro Team—like you don’t deserve to be?” He’s fishing for me to say it because he knows where my fears are coming from. He knows it’s less about the guys in the shop, and more about the self-sabotaging thoughts swirling in my head.

  “Sometimes,” I say, twisting a cloth napkin in my lap around my index finger. All the time is what I wanted to say. The expression “fake it until you make it” has been my motto ever since I was a teenager. Show signs of weakness and you’ll get eaten alive in this industry.

  “EmV—” Zayne stops and shakes his head. “What’s your real name?”

  “Emily,” I answer.

  “Emily Commons,” he says slowly. “You trained, studied, and worked your ass off for years. It’s no fluke that you are now an incredibly talented—and sought after—artist. You won Ink Wizard Charlotte on your skills. You have more than 100,000 followers on Instagram. And you’re being sponsored by the largest tattoo ink company in the world. You are not a fraud, and I refuse to let you get psyched out by your own insecurities.”

  Tears prick at my eyes. I blink them back and grab my water, taking a sip to suppress the urge to cry. The use of my full, real name makes it even more touching because it was a throwaway piece of information I slipped into our conversation on the plane ride to Chicago. And if he remembered that, it means he’s the kind of person who pays attention the little details. I’ve never had someone who paid attention to the details about me before.

  “Was that creepy?” Zayne asks, leaning back running a hand through his luscious locks. “Sorry if that was creepy.”

  “No. It was really, really rad.” I say. A stray tear escapes and slides down my cheek. I immediately reach up and wipe it away. “Well, damn. You melted the Ice Queen,” I quip.

  “I’ve been in this industry for as long as you have, and we both know that you’re the furthest thing from an Ice Queen.”

  “You’ve only seen me on my best behavior.” I wink at him.

  “Seriously, though, I’m amazed you’ve kept a positive and happy vibe all these years. Especially with all the stories you hear regarding reasons people choose the designs they get, and all the different personalities you deal with daily. Tattoos are art—but at the end of the day, it’s a customer service industry, and it’s easy to get worn down in customer service.”

  “Meeting people and hearing their stories is one of my favorite parts. Many people use tattoos to heal, and I’m honored to be part of that process. Being able to translate someone’s story or vision into an image they love is an unexplainable feeling.”

  “I love how passionate you are about your clients. It tells me so much about your character and who you are as a person. You’re not doing it for the money. Fame. Puffing out your chest and bragging that an amazing ink company sponsors you.”

  “No.” I laugh just thinking about what a douchebag I’d look like if I walked into a shop like I owned the fucking place. I’ve seen tattooers do it, but I don’t have the arrogance to pull it off. I’d rather prove my skills with my machine. “None of that shit makes any difference to me. Those things are all perks of being good at what I do. It’s much more than that.”

  “How so?”

  “I may not have to have a painting hanging on a wall in a fine art museum, but I’ve got hundreds of moving pieces walking the streets. I love listening to their passion and putting their ideas into something they’ll be excited to show off.”

  “Then don’t worry about what other people think—or what you believe they’re thinking. Put your head down and create the amazing art that only you can. That’s how you prove your worth.”

  He’s right. The only way to prove I belong here, is by showing them—and myself. I need to get out of my own head and realize that Ambassador wouldn’t have selected me if I didn’t have talent.

  After Zayne’s pep talk, I feel so much better about the situation at the shop. The rest of our dinner is easy conversation about tattooing and random get-to-know each other stuff. I love hearing his stories about Louis. Zayne has a fun, behind-the-scenes perspective on the tattooing legend.

  On our way out, he holds the door open for me. I’ve got one foot on the street when a familiar, tall, skinny machine inside the doorway catches my eye.

  “Hold up, Z,” I tell him, backing up and rushing
to the pressed penny maker. My excitement at being in a Russian-inspired restaurant when we arrived, because that’s the only way I would have missed my favorite machine.

  I’m rummaging through my messenger bag giddy with excitement as I look for loose change when Zayne holds out a handful of coins. It reminds me of my grandfather, who would jingle the change in his pocket while impatiently waiting for someone.

  “Thanks!” I say, plucking two quarters and a penny out of the pile. I check the date on the penny, then throw it back and grab another one. “All you have are new pennies,” I say, unable to keep the disappointment out of my voice.

  “Yeah, I usually request them when I’m getting change back. Don’t want any dirty copper ruining the inside of my pockets,” he deadpans.

  Ever since Kandy told me Zayne was a cool guy, I’ve tried to keep an open mind. It turns out, she was right, which is refreshing because I honestly thought the entire trip would be a battle of wills. “You’re a trip.”

  “Aren’t the shiniest, newest pennies the ones you want?” he asks.

  “See, that’s what everyone thinks,” I say, tapping my temple. “But pre-1982 pennies are the best because they don’t have zinc in them, which creates an ugly-ass silver streak when it’s stretched.”

  When I catch his eyes, he’s staring at me as if he can’t believe anyone knows this much information about a cheesy souvenir. I’m far too excited to pretend to be cool.

  “I started collecting these things when I was a little girl. It was a different way to document all the places I’d been. My sisters always wanted a t-shirt or stuffed animal or something,” I explain as I crank the handle that rolls to the image of a teacup, the one I want to press into my coin. “But I picked a penny every time.”

  My penny book is still at my parents’ house, so I’d completely forgotten about it until today. Out of sight, out of mind, pennies fell by the wayside when I began getting tattoos to document the places I’d been.

  “That’s really forward-thinking,” Zayne says. “I mean, I never really thought anything of these machines until right now, but I totally get it. It’s a fantastic idea for keeping track of travels and having a personalized memento from places you’ve visited.”