“Well, not sure if I can blame him after you left him with Marvin.”
“Not my fault. This tattoo is supercomplicated, and I have to get it right.”
I lean up to look at him, raising an eyebrow. “What, are you doing a portrait of the Mona Lisa?”
“You know, Avery, rule one of getting a tattoo—don’t piss off the guy with the tattoo equipment who can wreck you for life.”
“Can’t be any worse than the tattoo I had before,” I say.
“Well, you got me there. I’m going to go back to my tattooing now.”
I nod, resting my head back down, smiling at the easy banter between us.
If things were different, if Chris hadn’t stomped out my belief in love—
Stop it. Stop it, stop it, stop it.
You aren’t doing this, I tell myself.
I’m here for a new start, a new sense of independence. I’m here to begin again, to get rid of the old Avery. The old Avery shaped her life around a man. The new Avery won’t, especially not a tattoo parlor owner I just met.
Even if he is gorgeous. And funny. And pretty damn sexy.
Shit. Jodie knew exactly what she was doing. I’ve got to be strong. I can’t let it work.
But ten minutes later when he’s finished and I get to see the big reveal, tears come to my eyes.
“It’s beautiful,” I say, meaning it. Gone is the inked heart of my old life, of the man who didn’t deserve my heart after all. Gone is the constant reminder of what I had, of who I was.
In its place is a gorgeous, detailed purple lily. It’s chic and sophisticated in a way the heart never was.
I turn to face Jesse. Overwhelmed with emotion, I do something highly unprofessional, highly unlike the new Avery.
I wrap my arms around his neck, hugging him tightly, tears flowing onto his black button-up shirt. “I love it so much. Thank you. It’s just the new beginning I needed.”
He wraps his arms around me, accepting the hug graciously. “You’re welcome,” he says into my hair, the scent of his oaky cologne again lifting toward me. His warmth wraps around me, and for a moment, it feels good to be in his arms.
Then I get a grip. I don’t even know this man. I’m in an intimate hug I initiated with my tattoo artist. He probably thinks I’m a stalker, a psycho, or both.
“Sorry,” I say, pulling away, tucking my hair behind my ear. “I just got carried away.”
“It’s okay,” he says, showing his gorgeous teeth as he slides his hands in his pockets. “Glad you like it. I’m here to make my customers happy.”
Something about the way it rolls off his tongue—or perhaps it’s my horny mind wandering—makes me tingle inside a bit. I have a feeling he could make someone very happy in all the right ways.
I shake my head. “Um, okay. Do I pay out front?” I ask, trying to bring some semblance of a business relationship back.
“It’s on the house,” Jesse says, brushing aside my wallet.
“What? No way. Not happening.”
“No, seriously. I know what it’s like to need a new start. I do. So please. Just here, give my card to friends. Tell people I’m the best tattoo artist around. That’s how you can pay me.”
“I can’t. I can’t accept this.”
“You absolutely can.”
The prideful part of me wants to fight, to insist on paying him. Instead, though, feeling like a new woman, I smile and say, “Thank you.” I take a handful of cards and head out the door as Jesse walks back toward Brett, probably going to bail him out of the room of shrieking divas.
I want to turn around so badly when I get to the door, just to see those green eyes one more time, but I don’t.
This is so stupid. I’m not going to see him again. I got my new tattoo, I’m ready to start over, and I’ve accomplished one of my goals.
As I walk toward home, I notice I have a little more bounce in my step. Despite the burning sensation on my shoulder and the pain, I feel better than I have in months.
I tell myself it’s the new tattoo, and not the man who gave it to me.
Chapter Six
“Gorgeous.”
“It is pretty nice,” I say, admiring my new ink. I’m standing in my room glancing in the mirror above my dresser. Jodie’s in the doorway.
“I’m not talking about the tattoo,” she says. I look over in time to see her signature wink.
“Don’t,” I say, knowing what’s coming.
“Don’t what? Come on. He had his hands all over your shoulders. Don’t tell me you didn’t get a little hot and bothered. He’s damn gorgeous.”
I feel my face redden. I put the bandage back in place, and readjust the strap on my tank top gingerly. I head toward the kitchen, brushing by Jodie to get a bottle of water from the fridge. Looking into the living room, I see that Henry’s dead asleep on the sofa, drooling, Sebastian sleeping in the crook of his leg. I smile, but Jodie’s words quickly melt it off my face.
“At least admit he’s pretty cute.”
“Why? Why does it matter, Jodie? I told you. I’m done with men. Not interested. Been there, done that, and been burned.”
“Listen. I’m not saying marry the guy. But I am saying the best way to get over what Chris did to you is to find someone else. Have some fun. Jesse could be fun for you. God knows he could stand to live a little, too.”
Grabbing my water from the fridge, I take a seat at the kitchen island. “What do you mean?”
Jodie stands across from me, leaning on the counter. “Rumor has it he’s had a rough few years.”
“Really? He seemed okay to me. Joking and laughing.”
“Of course. Because you’re beautiful. Plus, I told him all about you when I called.”
“You didn’t.”
“You really think I sent you to J & J’s because of their tattooing skills?” She rolls her eyes, smiling. “You said you came here to break away from your old life. What better way than a supersexy tattooed hunk who has nice, strong hands and a sense of humor? He’s attractive, he’s business savvy, and he’s super nice. I knew he’d be just the thing to get your mind off old what’s-his-name. And I knew you’d never pursue it. You just needed a little shove, right?”
I’m appalled. I exhale audibly. “Glad to know I trusted you. So he could’ve been the worst tattoo artist ever and you’d have sent me?”
She shrugs. “I mean, relax. He isn’t the worst, obviously. But hell, even if he had jittery hands, I’d probably take the risk to have those sexy hands all over me. Admit it. It was heavenly.”
I dodge her question, shaking my head. “Maybe you and Jesse should date,” I say. “You two would be a good pair.”
She laughs. “Please. Not my type.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know. He’s just too… serious for me? Too responsible, maybe? I need a wilder man.”
“You said he’d be perfect to help me live it up.”
“Yeah, he would. But you’re a little more… shall I say, traditional than me?”
“So you’re saying I’m boring?”
“No. I’m just saying you and Jesse would be a good match. You’re both responsible and mature but you need to spice things up. You need to break free from the past. I think you could do that together.”
“And how do you know so much about Jesse? You must’ve had quite the heart-to-heart during your tattoo session.”
Jodie’s smile widens. “I mean, we did talk a little. But I mostly know him because Brett and I banged a few times last summer.”
My jaw drops open. Jodie doesn’t look bothered or embarrassed in the slightest. She just shrugs. “A girl has her needs,” she says.
I do the only thing I can.
I laugh.
“What happened?”
“He wasn’t my type, either. Brett was a little too giggly in bed. He had this weird habit of—”
“Enough,” I interrupt, tossing my hands up in front of me. “Please. I don’t need to know any mo
re details.”
“See what I mean? You’re very straitlaced, conservative. Jesse said the same thing when we were talking about it during my tattoo.”
“You talked about it during your tattoo? While Brett was there?”
“No. He was off that day. And why not? It’s not like I’m embarrassed. Why are we so closed-off about sex? We’re young. We should be exploring, having fun.”
“So your type is what, a sex addict? A swinger?”
She finds this uproariously funny. “I don’t know about that. But maybe just not someone who is so uptight. Someone who isn’t afraid to have fun. And being rich might not be a bad thing, either, you know? I’ll take a sugar daddy, maybe.”
I laugh a little. “You’re ridiculous.”
“But at least I’m honest. Unlike some people who won’t admit it when they find a man worth letting go of a few principles for.”
“Okay, look. He seems like a nice guy. And yeah, he’s mildly attractive. But I told you. I’m here for me, not for love or even lust. Plus, it’s not like I’ll see him again anyway. It was a one-time thing. I’m not planning on getting a full sleeve done or anything.”
Jodie sort of skips toward the living room to get her laptop, probably to work on her book. “You never know,” she yells over her shoulder, giggling a little bit.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask, worried about what she has up her sleeve.
“Oh, I think you might see him again. It’s a small town,” she says, scooching Henry over just a smidgen so she can sit down with the two laziest animals I’ve ever seen.
“It’s not really a small town,” I retort.
“Don’t worry. You’ll see him.” She turns toward me and winks conspiratorially, but I just shake my head.
It doesn’t matter, though. She’s wrong. She’s just excited to play matchmaker. Nothing will come of it.
And even if it does, I’ll make sure to stomp out the fire before it incinerates me this time.
I head to my room to take a nap and think about how crazy life is… but how crazy simple it is, too.
Chapter Seven
The days drift by, and I fall into a routine, against my desires. Work in the evenings. Walks with Henry in the mornings, fighting him all the way to get off the couch. Agonizing phone conversations with my mother on Sunday afternoons. Wild nights out on Friday or Saturday, depending on Jodie’s and my schedules. Coffee with Jodie in the morning before she plasters herself to her computer to finish her latest manuscript. Groceries on Thursday afternoon.
Life is getting pretty predictable already.
So, on a Tuesday morning, after our morning coffee and gossip session, I ask Jodie where the nearest craft store is.
“I think there’s one on Twenty-Ninth and Baltimore. What do you need?”
“Canvases. And some paints. An easel, too.”
“Painting? I mean, I know you like to sketch in your spare time, but I didn’t know you were into painting.”
When we’re hanging out at home and Jodie’s writing, sometimes I break out my sketchbook, getting some of my frustrations and feelings out in random drawings. Jodie insists I’m pretty good. I’ve never told her, though, that I also have a thing for painting—mostly because I didn’t see a need to. It’s been years since I’ve busted out a brush and canvas.
I shrug and glance at her. “I used to be really into painting. A long time ago in high school, I used to love painting scenery. I took a few art classes and even won a few contests. I had my own mini studio set up in my room.”
“What happened?” she asks, raising her second cup of coffee to her pink lips.
I shrug. “I don’t know. I guess I knew art was never going to be my career, so I just kind of put my focus on other things.”
“Well, awesome. Get out there and get some painting done. You could be the next Picasso or something.”
“Um, he was more abstract.”
“Okay, then you’ll be the next… who is big on scenery painting? Oh, screw it. You’ll be the next Avery Johannas. Johannas even sounds like a painter.”
“There was a Johannes Vermeer, but it’s pronounced differently. And spelled differently. Obviously.”
“Never heard of him. Obviously,” she says, flipping her hair, shrugging. Sebastian meows at her feet, and she quickly scooches off her stool to go and give him some food. I finish my coffee, drag Henry outside to pee, and then grab my sunglasses off the counter, the craft store my next stop.
***
An hour later, I’ve found myself a piece of beach back from the sunbathers. It’s not as early as I would like—the sun has already been up for hours. Tomorrow, I’ll try to get out here earlier, if I can drag my butt out of bed.
Some kids play volleyball on a patch of sand thirty feet in front of my easel. I’m pretty sure they’re going to spike a ball and destroy my carefully organized painting station. Nonetheless, I can’t wipe the smile off my face. As my brush grazes the canvas, I’m happy to say I like what I see. More than that, I like the feel of the brush in my hand, the freedom of not having a plan as I paint the world as I see it. For once, I don’t have to worry about how I’m supposed to see things. The brush in my hand doesn’t lie.
“Looks great,” a voice says behind me, and I involuntarily shudder. Luckily, I’d been studying the horizon and not painting. I turn to see the face belonging to the voice.
“Sorry,” he says. “Didn’t mean to mess up your groove.”
Green eyes stare back at me, and suddenly, I feel myself readjusting my bangs, smooching my lips together to make sure my lip gloss is evenly applied. I get mad at myself for this, but I can’t help it.
He was gorgeous in a button-up and jeans in the tattoo parlor.
He’s unforgivingly, overtly sexy standing shirtless beside me now. My gaze wanders lower and lower to his tanned six-pack, studying the tattoos smattered all over his body. There are a decent number of images, as one would expect from a tattoo artist. Still, they’re tasteful, tactfully placed, not over the top. After all, they still allow an unblocked view of his rock-hard body, including those delicious-looking abs.
“I was out for a run and saw you over here. Thought I’d swing by and see how your tattoo is doing. Is it healing okay? Glad to see you’ve got it covered. Direct sunlight isn’t good for healing, like we talked about.”
I avert my eyes back to my canvas, now feeling self-conscious about my obvious staring and the fact he’s seeing my painting.
“It’s fine. Looks great. I love it,” I say, the choppy phrases the best I can do.
“Didn’t know you like to paint. This looks awesome.”
So far, I only have the sky and some of the water done. It’s not really impressive, but I appreciate his kind words. They soften my nerves a bit. “Thanks. I haven’t done this in forever.”
“Doesn’t look that way. You’re really good, Avery.”
“I don’t know about that.”
“I do. I tried painting once, and trust me, it looked nothing like this. It’s beautiful.”
“Hey, don’t discount what you do. You’re such an amazing artist. To be able to do all of that drawing and shading, you have to have skill.”
“It’s different, completely different. I always wished I could paint. Maybe sometime you could teach me,” he says, and I nod. He looks a little nervous now, like he’s not sure how I’ll respond.
“Yeah, that would be great. Don’t know how helpful I’d be.”
“And I’m not sure how good I’d be. Maybe we could get lunch or something afterward, as payment for dealing with my horrific painting.”
I hesitate. The way he says lunch conjures images of a date. A part of me, the part still admiring his green eyes and the peripheral view of his abs, wants to say, “Hell yes, sign me up.”
But the other part of me, the rational part of me, thinks, “No way.”
Chris was a gorgeous man, too. I’ve fallen for sexy before, and look how it turned out. I
don’t even know Jesse, not really. I can’t risk getting involved.
“Jesse,” I say, biting my lip for a moment because this is about to get awkward. “I’d love to help you with your painting and all. But, just so we’re clear, it would be as friends. I’m not interested in dating.”
He doesn’t leave any pause, any moment of silence. “No, no. Of course. I’m not interested either. It would be a completely platonic situation. Seriously.”
I study him for a moment. On one hand, he was quick to answer. I believe him. He’s not interested in anything beyond friendship, which is a relief.
But standing by my canvas, the summer sun causing sweat to bead on my forehead, I wonder why his words sting like salt water in an open wound.
He’s not interested. Like, not at all.
It shouldn’t bother me. It shouldn’t surprise me. Why the hell would a man like Jesse be interested in some boring, lame woman like me? No man like him is going to want a twentysomething divorcee who is looking for a wild time painting canvases on the beach.
I’m glad I don’t have to worry about crossing a line. He’s not interested, which makes the temptation easier to resist.
Still, the words play over and over in my head, long after he’s said his farewell and run off down the beach.
He’s not interested. There’s no chance.
Those eyes will only be looking at me platonically, and those abs will never be mine to touch.
I finish my painting before heading back to the apartment to get ready for work. There’s a little less bounce in my brush, a little less life in my strokes. When I’m done, the painting looks real enough, but it’s rigid and too realistic. There’s no emotion, no life in it.
It’s missing something.
***
“Shit, the cash register isn’t working again. Now I have to do math. I’m a writer, not a freaking statistician.” Jodie is holding her head by the cash register, panic on her face as she studies her tablet.
“Let me see it,” I say reaching for the paper. After a quick mental calculation, I tell her, “The total would be thirty-six dollars and forty-two cents.”
Inked Hearts Page 5
