by Skylar Hill
“Redwoods,” he said. “My family has a long history with them.”
“Tell me,” she said, and it wasn’t an order or a request, it was a beckoning. Her emerald eyes shone with warmth, and he found himself shifting closer to her, even with the table between them.
“I come from a lumber dynasty,” he said. “We go all the way back to the 1800s, all around Oregon. My great-great-granddaddy built empires and cleared forests. We were logging men for generations. And then my dad came along.”
“Not so much a logging man?” Cam asked.
“More like a hippie,” James said, the fondness in his voiced piqued by the memory of his father. “When he inherited the company, he completely flipped the script.”
“How so?” she asked.
“He stopped all logging on the lands we still owned, regenerated the forests, sold the mills, and then took all the money and invested it in clean energy.”
Her delighted laugh rang out, and the sound shot straight through him, heat spiking inside his chest. His fingers clenched a little under the table. He wanted to reach out and touch her, and he knew he couldn’t.
But, God, not doing it was a kind of torture he wasn’t used to.
Cam Ellison intrigued him. She looked out of place at Electric Chair, which was all harsh light and stainless steel. It wasn’t her clothes—the vintage pencil skirt and semi-sheer blouse she’d tucked into it weren’t totally strange. James knew a lot of women in the tattoo world who went for a retro look. But it was usually a sexy, bold, pin-up girl aesthetic. He’d certainly chased after his share of stylish women like that, but Cam looked more like a Sandra Dee than a Bettie Page. There was a sweet softness to her, from the blonde halo of curls escaping from the wayward bun on top of her head, to the cat-eye glasses she pulled out and perched on the tip of her nose as she examined the photos.
Even more curious, she had no visible tattoos. Every time he looked at her, his eyes would catch on her filmy shirt or the navy skirt that clung to her curves like it was its job, and his mind would wander, wondering. Where were they? What were they?
Did she have cheeky little bows running up the back of her thighs? Constellations etched over her hipbones? Bright splashes of color—the Northern Lights, perhaps—spread across her shoulder blades?
Was she the type to love an author’s words enough to get them inked along the delicate curve of her rib cage? Did she look at the quote in the mirror each night, running her fingers over the letters, gaining strength with each touch?
He wanted to see.
He wanted to touch.
He wanted to know.
“Your dad sounds like a character,” she said.
The smile he shot her in response was bittersweet. “He was,” he said quietly.
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” she said. He was surprised when she reached out, her small hand covering his much larger one.
What was less surprising was the shock of heat that went through him when her skin touched his. What was disturbing was the loss he felt when she pulled her hand back.
“It’s hard when you lose the center,” she said.
He looked up, startled, a jolt of understanding, of connection filling him. “That’s the perfect way to put it,” he said.
His father had been the center. The center of their family, the center of the family company, and the center of his mother’s world. He had had a moral compass and a passion for life and doing good that both his boys strived to follow, and sometimes James felt like he’d never even be able to achieve a sliver of the good his father had done for the world.
“When did you lose him?” she asked.
“It’s been a year now,” he said. He tapped the photos of the old-growth redwoods. “These are on the first land he ever preserved. He and my mom built their dream house out there.”
She traced a finger down the edge of a black-and-white photo, a shot of one giant tree standing in a sea of much smaller ones.
“A lone survivor,” she said. “There’s a lot of grief in these.”
James swallowed, his throat dry. “I took them the day after he died,” he said.
He didn’t know why he confessed this to her—no one knew it. In fact, no one had ever seen these photos. No one had ever seen any of his photos. Photography was something he kept private, because it was wholly his, not anyone else’s.
But he’d been compelled to show her the second he saw her work. To see if she would understand. To see how she would translate the beauty and the grief and the harshness of the forest into a different kind of art.
“I understand,” she said. “So this would be a memorial piece.”
“In a way,” he said.
“And you wanted a watercolor tattoo?” The way she said it, like she was unsure, puzzled him.
“Is that a problem?” he asked. “It’s not a new style for you. It can’t be. Lydia’s piece was too good for you to be a beginner.”
“You really liked it that much?” Again, the insecurity made her voice waver. How did she not know how good she was? Why wasn’t Scott and Electric Chair showcasing her and her work everywhere they could? He’d done his homework. He’d looked up her Instagram when he’d gotten back from dinner with Lydia. Every single piece posted on it was exquisite. Original. Inventive. She even had a little Etsy shop where she sold original watercolor paintings that looked like they belonged in an art gallery.
“Cam, you’re incredibly talented,” he said. “I’d love to talk technique with you sometime, because the blending on Lydia’s tattoo and those fox tattoos on your Instagram were incredible.”
Her cheeks were bright red, and her eyes were shining at him—not with tears—but with a grateful appreciation that rocked him to his core.
Who the hell had messed with this girl so much that she acted shocked when someone acknowledged her talent? And where was the bastard, so he could kick his ass? James’ protective instinct roared to life inside him, and he had to clench his hand around the cup of coffee to keep his fingers from forming a fist.
“Thank you,” she said. “That—well, it means a lot, especially coming from you. I’ve always loved your work.”
“Well, the feeling’s very mutual,” James said. He leaned forward. “Will you do it?” he asked. “Create a piece for me?”
She looked down at the photos in front of her, her fingers tracing the tree trunk of the lone old redwood. His skin prickled, as if she was touching him instead of the photo. In a way, she was. Her hands were on a piece of him, of his grief, of his art. It was like she was touching his soul.
“Yes,” she said. “I will.”
Chapter Three
Cam
Cam got to the Secret Society lounge before Lydia. The Victorian era–hall was not only a bar and restaurant, but had a ballroom for bigger events, live music on the weekends, and a recording studio housed in the building. The speakeasy ambience and killer cocktails made it one of Cam’s favorite places in the city. The lighting was warm, the booths plush and comfortable, and the selection of absinthes—something she only indulged in when she wanted a truly wild night—was impressive.
Cam set her purse down, looking over the menu as the waitress set her Bee’s Knees—a gin cocktail with orange blossom honey and lemon—on the table.
“Thanks, Miriam,” she said. She and Lydia came here often enough that she knew most of the waitstaff by name.
“No problem. Let me know when you’re ready to order,” Miriam said, hurrying off to grab another round of drinks from the bar.
Cam sipped her cocktail, the touch of honey beautifully mingling with the dry bite of the gin and lemon.
“Hi, hi, sorry I’m late!” As always, Lydia arrived in an animated cloud of Burberry perfume and bright colors. She was wearing a Kelly-green pea coat tossed over a sleek silver wiggle dress that looked like she’d been poured into it. Her heels were lethally high, and she moved in them like she was walking on air.
“You are in so much trouble,” Cam said, taking anothe
r sip of her cocktail.
“I’m always late,” Lydia protested, sitting down across from her in the red velvet booth.
“You know that’s not what I’m talking about,” Cam said. “You didn’t tell me the client you were referring me to was James McGowan.”
Lydia grinned. Her lipstick was a bold, hot pink today. It should’ve clashed with her coat, but Lydia had a way of pulling impossible things off with style and ease. “Oh? Didn’t I?”
“You know how much I love his work! What were you thinking?” Cam’s cheeks heated up just thinking about him. She prayed she hadn’t made too much of a fool out of herself. It wasn’t just that she loved his work—though she did—it was that he was possibly the sexiest man she’d ever seen in her life. How she had managed to get through their consultation without drooling was a miracle.
“Sweetie, chill,” Lydia said affectionately. “You’re so high strung. As soon as he saw my tattoo, he was determined to get your name. He’s a little intense when he wants something, if you didn’t notice.”
A horrifying thought struck her. Oh god, had she been accidentally fantasizing about one of her closest friend’s lover this entire time? She was going to hell. “Are you sleeping with him?” she asked.
Lydia laughed, a clear, bell-like sound that rang out, making several men at the bar turn, like sailors drawn to a siren. “Ew! No way!” she said. “He’s the closest thing I have to a brother. Jay’s family, Cam. He’s good people. I promise.”
“It’s not that—“ Cam started, catching herself at the last second. But it was too late. Lydia straightened, her eyes widening, that shocking-pink mouth dropping open as she took in Cam’s deer-in-the-headlights look.
“You’re into him!” she crowed.
Cam’s cheeks heated up. “No…” she said weakly.
“You totally are.” Lydia leaned back. “You know, you two would be cute together. You can have tons of tall, lumberjack-y babies who’d wear plaid flannel onesies.”
Cam tossed a napkin at her, and Lydia stuck her tongue out playfully. Miriam appeared, slipping a glass of straight whiskey next to Lydia before disappearing again.
“That woman is like a cat,” Lydia remarked, taking a sip of the whiskey, her eyes fluttering shut as she savored the taste. “So, you and Jay. How did the consultation go?”
“I don’t know,” Cam said. “I mean, good, I guess. He wants me to do a piece for him.”
“Of course he does,” Lydia said. “Have you started sketching yet?”
Cam shook her head. The photos James had given her were at the front of her mind; she couldn’t shake them. Her fingers were itching for a pencil, for her watercolors, for the feel of the paper under her pen.
“What’s it going to be?” Lydia asked, but when Cam didn’t answer, her brows knit together. “Oh,” she said softly. “This is about his dad, isn’t it?”
“Did you know him?” Cam asked. She couldn’t help but be curious. James McGowan was the type of man who looked like he could tear tree stumps apart with his bare hands. Tough, masculine, rugged, all those words described him to a T.
But when he’d spoken of his father, when she’d mentioned losing the center, his eyes—those extraordinary, stormy eyes—had darkened with an understanding that she felt down to the very tips of her fingers.
“Mr. McGowan was awesome,” Lydia said. “He was always taking all the kids camping or on nature hikes. There was even one year when he paid for our entire class to go to this wolf sanctuary.” She smiled at the memory. “He helped me so much when I couldn’t dance anymore and started event planning. He introduced me to the right people, had me plan events for his company. He really gave me my start. He was just an incredible soul. One of those people you want to be around because he makes everything brighter. Jay’s a lot like him.”
Cam could see that. And she could see the impact his father’s loss had on him.
“You’re really interested in him, aren’t you?” Lydia asked, and this time, her voice wasn’t teasing, but serious.
“No,” Cam said. She couldn’t be.
A man like that? He could have anybody.
And she was a nobody.
“How long has it been since you dated anyone?” Lydia continued to prod.
Cam shot her a warning look, downing the rest of her drink.
“What?” Lydia said innocently. “It’s been awhile.”
“I’ve been busy,” Cam said. “Now, didn’t you say something about your caterer being incompetent this morning?”
Lydia rolled her eyes. “Way to change the subject.”
“Just give me this one,” Cam said.
“Oh, fine,” Lydia replied, rolling her eyes. “But don’t think I’m going to drop it forever.”
“Lydia, you never drop anything forever,” Cam said dryly.
Her friend grinned. “Okay, so, I get to the event this morning—this all-day corporate retreat team-building thing—and find that my caterers have misplaced the eggs…”
By the time she and Lydia parted ways—Lydia heading to her downtown penthouse apartment—it was late, and Cam’s eyes were beginning to burn a little from exhaustion. Her Uber driver dropped her off in front of the old three-story Victorian that had been split into apartments years ago. She pulled her key out of her purse, unlocked the third door on the right, and headed up three flights of stairs to the top floor, where she lived.
Her little apartment was charming in its own way—but more importantly, it was cheap, and there was enough room for Evie during summer vacation. Her sister’s scholarship paid for her dorm, and Cam wanted her to get as much as the college experience as possible, even though that first year, it was odd not having her around. It had been just the two of them against the world for so long, it felt like a piece of her was missing.
But she’d gotten used to the silence and solitude. Even liked it sometimes.
Other times…
Well. It didn’t matter. Loneliness was temporary. Mind over matter, she reminded herself sternly, tossing her bag on her bed. She’d painted the bedroom a deep blue when she moved in, spending hours on her back on a board rigged on top of two ladders to form a platform as she painted the ceiling with glow-in-the-dark paint that was invisible until you turned the lights off.
She fell back on her bed, flipping off the lights, and the scene she’d taken days to paint across the ceiling came to life, glowing steadily in the darkness.
Her eyes traced the stars and trees, the silhouette of deer, mountain lions and bears, the sharp jut of mountains and rock, the rough, unyielding landscape of her childhood. The Siskiyou Range, a place she hadn’t been back to since…
A place she’d likely never be back to.
A good memory, she had told herself while she’d painted it. Hold onto it. Make it real.
It always calmed her, staring up at the glow in the dark forest she’d created for herself.
But tonight, it wasn’t calming—it was inspiring. As she stared up at her landscape, her mind wandered to James’s photos. To James himself.
Her heart picked up just thinking about him—a heady mix of artistic and womanly desire. She wasn’t sure where one started and the other began, but she was going to use all of it.
She flipped the lights on and reached for her sketchpad, the splashes of color and spiky lines already vivid in her mind.
Chapter Four
James
“What do you think?”
James turned in a slow circle, taking in the gutted textile warehouse. It was an old building—red brick with the rusted metal signs still perched at the top of the warehouse. Ancient iron staircases led up to a set of offices that overlooked the floor where the looms used to be. He could use the offices as the private tattoo rooms, he thought as he moved deeper into the building, breathing in deep.
Finally, he turned back to his brother, who looked a little out of place in such disarray.
“What do you think?” he asked.
A
iden sighed. “It’s not in the best neighborhood, and we’d have to do some work on the interior.”
James didn’t say anything. He was already seeing it in his head—how he’d lay it out. Where the stations would go, the warm mahogany counter he’d install to set off the brick.
Aiden knew him too well, because in the next breath he was saying, “This is the one, isn’t it?”
James grinned. His big brother never missed anything. “It’s got great bones.”
Aiden’s mouth quirked reluctantly. It was there and gone, but James felt a flash of relief to see even a hint of a smile. Their father’s death had been hard on the whole family, but the burden of running the company had fallen to Aiden. He’d been prepared for it, of course, because his brother was always prepared for everything, but James worried. Aiden liked to keep things under the surface, but when you did that, grief tended to simmer, then finally explode in the worst sort of way.
“Well, I guess we’ll be the first to make it an up-and-coming neighborhood,” Aiden said.
“I don’t want to gentrify the place,” James said. “I like the feel here.”
“Of course you do,” Aiden said. He looked down at his watch. “You’ll call the broker?”
James nodded, looking back over the warehouse floor, already seeing the possibilities of the space. An excited hum filled him. He’d been working toward this forever. Since the day he picked up a tattoo gun. And now it was finally here. A space of his own. A shop full of unparalleled talent.
He couldn’t wait.
“I need to get back to the office,” Aiden said. “The wind turbine specs are finally done. We should be going into production soon.”
“That’s fantastic,” James said. “Go, get out of here,” he continued. “And Aiden?”
His brother turned, looking expectantly at him. They didn’t look alike, the only thing they had in common was their height. Aiden took after their mother in looks and personality, with his messy shock of blonde hair and bright eyes that were always a little too serious. James was all their father, dark haired and maybe a bit too free-spirited for his own good.
