by Stacey Lynn
The weekend with him had been spectacular, better than any time with a man I’d had yet. Tattooed from knuckles to throat, a large piece all over his back and down both sides of his ribs, the man was nothing like the country club members I’d been around my whole life.
Tatted and dark and menacing and absolutely delicious.
Just the memory of Braxton, the way his strong hands tenderly caressed my body, the way he lost control and slammed into me. I dream of his groans. I still feel the weight of his body on top of mine. I wake up in the mornings, gasping for breath, reaching for him next to me for another round.
It’s a disaster. I’m still trying to find my footing in Portland after throwing away my family’s expectations of me and going out on my own. I’m struggling to find my place in the art world, working part-time at Galio’s art gallery, while spending the weekends and mornings working on my art, either outside at the amphitheater when weather permits or alone in my apartment.
A baby is the last need thing I need thrown into the mix.
It changes all the plans and promises I’ve made.
I’m still keeping it.
I only hope Braxton doesn’t despise me for it. We might have just been a one-night stand, but we’re connected through Jenna and Dan. And while we haven’t seen each other since the wedding, that doesn’t mean our lives won’t continually cross paths in the future.
I’ve put this off long enough.
Grabbing the notepad where I scratched down his number and the address for his tattoo parlor weeks ago when Jenna gave it to me, I slide into a pair of platform wedges and toss my purse over my shoulder.
It’s time to face the music.
—
I’m a block away from MadInk, feeling more green due to the sudden movements of the MAX light-rail system, on my way to tell the man I barely know I’m having his baby.
I know a few certain things about Braxton Henley. He’s twenty-eight, owns a tattoo parlor in one of the seediest areas of Portland, and he’s been friends with Dan since they were nine when Dan beat up a couple of older boys who had ganged up on Braxton. He moved out of Portland for several years to go to college and since then, according to Jenna, he’d been an apprentice in Seattle, learning the art of tattooing before he returned to Portland to open his own shop.
Since Dan travels almost weekly for his job, and I’m busy on the weekends with my own art shows, it never worked out for the four of us to get together and meet before Jenna’s wedding.
That’s what I know. He’s busy, drills needles into people for a living, and takes in strays.
Oh, and he fucks like the energizer bunny. Actually, he’s better than the batteries that power my own personal go-to device. The man doesn’t stop and knows his way around a woman’s body like he was meant to pleasure it. Or, he’s just had a lot of experience.
Which makes me want to vomit.
And did I mention he rescues animals? He does. Apparently he picks up stray dogs and works with an animal shelter nursing them back to health and helping them get adopted.
I mean, if he has that big of a heart for mangy mutts then he won’t exactly be pissed about the fact he got the maid of honor knocked up, right?
Right. My hands clasp together and I get a sudden waft of stench coming from the garbage dumpster in the alley I pass.
Fortunately, MadInk is straight ahead and before I can second-guess myself, I lunge forward, grab the door handle and whisk the door open.
A bell jingles and I gasp, inhaling the crisp, cool air inside and almost stumble to my knees before righting myself.
I rub my arms and glance around. The waiting area, a small section of metal-and-black-leather chairs, is empty. In the middle of the chairs is a glass table, three-ring binders are spread out and fanned, some open to reveal small but intricate and colorful pieces of art. Tattoos, probably.
In the distance, the faint buzzing of needle guns is barely audible over the heavy metal music.
“Can I help you?”
I jump at the voice and the woman who’s entered the waiting area without making a sound. Walking behind a large desk filled with small pieces of glittering jewelry, she snaps her gum with boredom clear on her face. “Need some ink? We’re busy tonight but the head guy can fit you in if it’s a small piece.”
“No.” God no, is more like it. I have a perverse fear of needles. The sharp stinging pain. And how do people ever truly know they’re sterilized properly?
“So what can I do you for, then?” Her eyes narrow, dip down and then up, trailing my body. “You don’t seem like the clientele we usually get. You lost?”
I wish. Southtown isn’t far from where I live, but two blocks into Southtown is an entirely different world from the Pearl District.
“No, I’m not. Is Braxton here?” As soon as I ask the question, my gaze lands on a portrait on the wall. Instantly, I know. It’s not just any ocean, it’s his. The way he sees it. The way he’s imagined it. Startling blues with bright orange lighting the night as the moon rises, pinks and swishes of purples melding at the horizon. It seems and feels as if the water travels forever. Just like it appears in real life, except the painting makes me hurt. Because he wants to see it, and hasn’t.
I don’t know what possessed him to tell me all about it when we were together, but I’ll never forget the story or the ache in his voice to splash in bright teal waters.
I am so going to throw up.
Clearing my throat, I step toward the girl behind the counter. She’s sitting in a chair now, bar height, feet kicked up onto the counter. Her feet, clad in rubber flip-flops despite it being only forty degrees outside, wiggle to a beat of music. Ink covers the entirety of her arms until it disappears beneath her tank top.
“Sweetie, listen, I’m not sure what you need—”
“I need Braxton,” I blurt. Get a grip, Cara. Just say what you came to say and leave. “I don’t have an appointment, but my friend Jenna said he should be here.”
She scans my body again, a piercing on the outer edge of her upper lip glimmering in the light as she presses her lips together. “So you do need to see the head guy.”
Her gaze makes me uncomfortable, like she’s inspecting me. “Is he here? Braxton?”
“Sure thing, sweetie.” Without taking her eyes off me, she reaches for a phone next to her and presses a single button. “Yeah, B? Got a girl out here needs to talk to you.” Silence, then, “Don’t know. Seems like a Free People model if you ask me, but she’s asking for you.”
Free People? I’m not certain whether to be offended or flattered. Yeah, I’m in a jumpsuit, wide-legged at the bottom in a denim color but it’s really linen. A white belt tightens around my waist. I don’t think it’s anything outrageous, and really, it’s more Anthropologie than Free People. Snappy-gum girl smirks, catching me checking myself out. I figure the difference doesn’t exactly matter to her.
“Don’t matter you don’t know Free People, B, just get your ass out here. Girl looks like she’s gonna puke.”
She snaps the phone down and grins. The Cheshire Cat comes to mind as she breaks out into a toothy smile. “He’ll be right here. You need a bucket?”
God. This girl. Is it that obvious to everyone that I’m constantly two-point-five seconds away from vomiting these days? “No, thank you.”
“So how do you know Braxton?”
“Not sure that’s any of your business, Stell.”
His voice. It rumbles through me, flows like water and sends thrills down my spine. I’ve spent weeks trying to forget his voice, so hung up on that one night we spent together that I’ve been sure I had to be imagining him and all his deliciousness.
But nope. Hell no. No way in hell. Braxton is standing in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest, looking just as stunning, if not more so than I remembered. I don’t know how it’s possible, but in the flesh—and sober—I go liquid.
Black cropped hair, dark as the night, tanned, olive skin that makes a girl w
ant to lick it right up like melted chocolate, and I have. Several times. I’ve had my hands and tongue and body all over this massive man who is currently staring at me like I’ve stolen something precious from him and he’ll stop at nothing, absolutely nothing, to have it returned. I can’t peel my eyes away. He was breathtaking in a suit. In jeans currently hugging his large and muscled thighs and a plain white T-shirt, his muscles pop and with the way his arms are currently crossed, holy hell, the tattoos…can anyone say arm porn?
Damn it. I should have run.
Be a better person. Be the girl I know you can be, the girl who’s deep down in your soul.
Shit. Jimmy always chooses the worst times to speak to me and I hate listening. But he’d been impossible to ignore while alive. On his deathbed, even more so.
“Can I help you?” Braxton asks. His voice is so brisk, so hardened, I falter, going back a step before regaining my balance.
He doesn’t even remember me? This is more mortifying than I’d imagined. I’m not much to sneeze at, but was I so forgettable to a guy like this? Youch. This stings. The night with him had been the most adventurous night I’d ever had. I let loose in a way I hadn’t since before Jimmy’s death three years before and it’d been thrilling. He’d given me more than one thing I’d never experienced before.
Perhaps that’s the problem. Hormones and a first-time orgasm have muddled my mind, making it seem more spectacular than it truly was. Hell, for a guy like him, it was probably a nightly thing. Weekly minimal.
“Hey, Braxton. I’m Cara, a friend of Jenna’s. Can we talk?”
“Depends on what you gotta say.”
I look at Stella. She’s in her same seat and, no joke, a bag of popcorn has somehow appeared in her hands. She tosses back a handful and waves. “Don’t mind me. We don’t get pretty girls like you in here and I’m thinking this is going to be fun.”
“Stella”—I have to fight a flinch. She glares at him like he’s a mosquito. She has to have some massive lady balls. That glare turned in my direction would make me want to burst into ash—“enough.”
“You don’t want me knowin’ your business, don’t go airin’ it in public.”
“Damn it. You’re a pain in my ass, you know that?”
“Love you too, B.”
My eyes bounce back and forth at their banter. But those last four words, they stall my chest. Shit, I haven’t even considered. “Are you two…dating?”
Stella throws her head back and laughs. It’s maniacal and loud and I can only stand there staring at her. She jerks back and reaches for the desk as she throws herself forward, slapping her hand on the counter. “Holy shit, girl. You’re hilarious and I think I love you too.”
“Jesus, fuck,” Braxton growls and then he’s in front of me. Holy cow, he moves fast. “Let’s go,” he growls again. His large, muscled hand wraps around my biceps and he tugs me forward. I can do nothing but follow him, tripping over my wedge sandals, the sound of Stella’s crazy laughter echoing loudly in the hallway.
He stops when he pulls me into what looks like a madman’s office. Papers are scattered all over the place and a chair resembling a dentist’s chair sits in the corner. The door slams shut and I spin around, which is a mistake.
He’s right in front of me. So tall I have to tilt my head up and he’s too close. His masculine scent invades my senses and another wave of nausea hits me.
This has to stop. My hand flies to my stomach and I step back. God, I’m going to puke all over his feet, and won’t that be amazing.
He doesn’t know me and I’m going to throw up all over him before I can tell him I’m pregnant. Awesome second impression.
Perhaps it’ll be more memorable than my first one.
“You wanted to talk?”
I look away, trying to settle my rattled nerves. “Yeah, um…I’m Cara. We met at Dan and Jenna’s wedding a few months ago.”
“And?”
Don’t puke. Just tell him. I hug my stomach more firmly. “Okay. Well, we met and um…well, I’m pregnant.” He doesn’t move, not a single twitch of any emotion flashes in his eyes or his face, not a single damn muscle twitch. Yeah, this is going about as well as I expected it to. “And, it’s yours.”
Love stories you’ll never forget
By authors you’ll always remember
eOriginal Romance from Random House
randomhousebooks.com
What’s next on
your reading list?
Discover your next
great read!
* * *
Get personalized book picks and up-to-date news about this author.
Sign up now.
