Chapter 6 Mitchell
CHAPTER SIX
Mitchell
Ink & Iron smells like ink, disinfectant, and cedar oil.
Comforting. Familiar. A place where things make sense.
Lines are clean. Boundaries sharp. No guesswork. No mess.
Usually.
But today?
The second I walked into Freddie’s kitchen and saw her, the world tilted.
I haven’t been able to find my footing since.
Now I’m back at the shop, pretending I’m fine, hunched over my station like muscle memory is enough to get me through the day.
Pencil in hand. Sketchpad open. Designs bleeding from my fingers in a rhythm that usually calms me.
Not today.
Not with Ivy, I finally know her name now, burned behind my eyelids.
The girl from that night.
My anonymous mistake.
The one I haven’t been able to forget, no matter how hard I’ve tried.
I’ve spent years building walls around myself. Years of keeping it casual, no strings, no complications. Tattooing has always been my escape, my place to keep things clean and sharp, controlled. I’m good at it. But that night?
I wasn’t in control.
We didn’t even talk much. It was more just a feeling… a craving.
I couldn’t resist her however hard I tried, and truth be told, in that moment, I didn’t want to.
Just her mouth on mine, her body against the cold leather of my chair, in the middle of this shop.
And then she disappeared.
No name. No number.
Just the imprint of her nails on my shoulders and her scent in my lungs.
Now?
Now she’s working for Freddie.
Watching Penny.
In his house.
And the worst part?
He doesn’t even know.
None of them do.
And I don’t know how the hell we’re going to avoid each other.
I grit my teeth and start another sketch. My fifth this morning.
It’s supposed to be a dragon, but the lines won’t cooperate.
I scrap it. Crumple the page. Toss it.
Just as Freddie waves goodbye and slides out the door.
Back to her…
"You’ve been stabbing that pencil like it owes you money," Timothy says, voice lazy from his perch on the front counter. "You good, or is this your new process?"
I don’t look up. "Working."
"Uh huh."
I can hear the grin in his voice.
"Real productive. You’ve started and destroyed, what, six sleeves now? One of ’em looked like a drunk snake."
I flip to a clean page. Try something geometric. Clean. No curves.
He takes a loud bite of his sandwich and keeps going. "So. Ivy."
My pencil stills.
He clocked it.
Of course he did.
Timothy doesn’t miss anything when it comes to me.
He was there this morning. Saw her standing in Freddie’s kitchen, hands wrapped around a mug like she was steady.
Like seeing me hadn’t shaken her.
But it had.
Timothy’s voice is still too casual to be innocent. "You know, she’s pretty cute, right? Legs for days. That messy bun? Killer. Got that sexy babysitter vibe going."
I shoot him a look sharp enough to draw blood. "What the hell do you want, Tim?"
He just shrugs, smile widening. "Nothing. Just seems like you two… recognized each other."
Shit.
My jaw tightens.
He knows.
Or thinks he does.
Doesn’t matter.
He’s fishing. I’m not biting.
"Drop it," I say.
I go back to my sketch like the conversation’s over.
But Timothy doesn’t care.
Instead, he slides off the counter, strolls over with the rest of his sandwich in hand like he’s got nothing better to do.
"You’re gonna tell me you’re not weird about this?"
I don’t answer. Just keep my pencil moving.
He whistles low under his breath. "Yeah. That’s what I thought."
"I said drop it."
"Come on, man." His tone’s still casual, but I hear the edge underneath. "You don’t get rattled. Not like this. Not unless somebody dies or you run out of gloves."
The lead snaps in my grip.
Tim holds up a hand. "Okay. Damn. Touchy."
I toss the broken pencil aside and grab another.
"When’s the last time you went out with someone?" he asks. "And I don’t mean a hookup. I mean someone you actually let in."
"Not your business."
"Just saying." He leans his hip against the edge of my station, arms crossed now. "It’s been, what, three years? Since…"
"Don’t."
He goes quiet. Doesn’t push, but he doesn’t back off either.
"You liked her," he says eventually. "Thought she was different."
"I thought wrong."
"She wrecked you."
"I’m fine."
"Sure," he mutters, voice dry. "That why you’ve mauled seven different sketches in one morning?"
I shove the latest one aside. Crumple it. Toss it in the trash with the others.
"Ivy’s not a thing," I say. "Not to me."
Tim just looks at me, waiting.
"She’s working for Freddie. That’s it. I didn’t know who she was. We didn’t talk. It was one night."
"You could’ve told him."
"What, you think I’m gonna walk into my friend’s kitchen and say, ‘Hey, remember that new nanny you hired? I fucked her on the shop chair last week and never got her name’?"
He winces. "Okay, yeah. Not ideal."
"No shit."
There’s a pause. Then, softer, "You gonna tell him now?"
"I don’t know."
"Mitchell…"
I cut him off. "It doesn’t matter. I’m not interested. I’ve got enough on my plate. I don’t need more… mess."
He raises an eyebrow. "You sure that’s not exactly what you need?"
I glare at him.
He shrugs. "You keep saying long term’s not for you. That you’re good on your own. But I see the way you looked at her. Like your whole system just got scrambled."
I pick up another pencil, firmer grip this time. Something to ground me.
"She’s working at Freddie’s. Watching Penny. I’ll keep my distance. End of story."
Tim lets out a slow breath. Then, grinning, "You gonna keep your distance if she shows up here again?"
My look could break glass.
He laughs anyway. "Alright, alright. I’ll shut up."
Despite my best efforts to deny it, inwardly I know the truth is clear.
Ivy got under my skin in a single night.
And now that she’s in my orbit, it’s throwing me off balance in ways I haven’t felt in years.
I thought I was over it, over her, even before I knew her name.
But the moment she looked at me this morning, like she was just as thrown, just as wrecked...
Yeah.
Whatever I told myself?
Bullshit.
The door chimes before I can spiral any further.
Good. I need the distraction.
Tim straightens off the edge of my station and heads toward the front, throwing the rest of his sandwich in the trash on the way.
Ink & Iron’s hours are loose… clients by appointment, walk-ins welcome, regulars treated like family. Word travels fast around here, and today, an old friend is swinging through those doors.
"Mitchell fucking Everett," a voice drawls. "How’s it going?"
I don’t even have to look up.
I’d recognize that cocky twang anywhere.
Silas Grant.
Trouble wrapped in charm.
Every woman’s worst decision and every man’s bad influence, all in one smirking package.
"You did remember I’m booked in today, right?"
"Unfortunately," I say, finally glancing up.
He grins, all teeth and swagger, like he’s here to steal your girl and your dog and still get invited to Thanksgiving.
"You’re lucky I like your work," he says, already moving through the shop like he owns the place. "Otherwise I’d take my extremely valuable body elsewhere."
Tim snorts from behind the front desk. "Valuable to who?"
"To art," Silas says, pointing at him with mock offense. "And to women across the tri county area, thank you very much."
I wave him back toward my station. "Shirt off. Sit down. Shut up."
Silas claps his hands like I’ve just handed him a beer and a backstage pass. "You always know how to sweet talk me, Mitch."
He shrugs out of his flannel, tosses it on the hook like he’s done this a hundred times before, which he has, and settles into the chair with the kind of practiced ease only someone deeply comfortable in their own skin can manage.
I grab the stencil and the gloves, trying to push Ivy from my mind.
But she lingers anyway.
The quiet between us. Her fingers curling in my shirt. The way her lips had tasted like heat and desperation and something that still haunts me.
I blink it off, turn back to the task in front of me.
Focus.
"Alright," I say, sliding on a fresh pair of gloves. "You still want that piece on the upper arm?"
He nods. "Yeah. Snake through the wildflowers. Something that says I am chaos but make it sexy."
"You’re the worst," I mutter.
"True. But I tip well."
I roll my eyes. "Try not to move."
"I’ll try not to breathe."
"Better."
I press the stencil to Silas’s arm.
The buzz of the machine kicks on, grounding me.
And of course, that’s exactly when Silas decides to open his mouth again.
"So," he says over the hum, like we’re not about to be locked in a couple hours of ink and pain, "you ever think about riding again?"
My brow furrows. "Riding what?"
"Horses. Like a real man. You know, the majestic beasts God put on this earth to test your patience and your hamstrings."
"Hard pass," I mutter, eyes on the first clean line I drag across his arm. "Last time I was on a horse, I dislocated my shoulder and swore vengeance."
He snorts. "You had the wrong horse. And the wrong guide. You need the Sunridge Ranch experience. We do it right out there."
Here we go.
He settles in deeper, voice taking on that easy promotional drawl that means he’s about to run his damn mouth for a while.
"Boone’s got the place running smoother than ever," Silas says. "We’re booked solid for summer lessons. Kids, couples, bachelorette groups who wanna pretend they’re in a Hallmark movie. Hmm actually maybe not… you’d hate it."
"Sounds like it."
"Rescue side’s growing too. Got two new foals last week. Rowan named one of ’em Moonbeam. Don’t ask."
I pause just long enough to arch a brow. "Moonbeam?"
Silas grins. "Yeah, well, he’s soft. But good at his job, so…"
I let out a little laugh, glad not to be thinking about Ivy.
If only for a moment…