5. Holly
HOLLY
“ T here,” Kane announces, giving my brand-new tattoo a final wipe and sitting back from the bed I’ve been lying on for the past couple of hours. “What do you think?”
I sit up and glance down at my now decorated hip. I gasp, my mouth dropping open. The finished artwork is beautiful.
“Oh, my God. I love it. It’s even more beautiful than I imagined.”
He gestures to the full-length mirror. “Go and take a look.”
I hop off the bed and walk over to the mirror, holding my top up, my jeans still part rolled down to expose the hip.
I no longer feel self-conscious—after all, this man has been poring over my skin for the whole afternoon, and it isn’t as though I’m exposing any part of myself he hasn’t already seen.
I twist in different angles to get a view of the tattoo from every direction.
I lock eyes with Kane in the mirror—God, that green gaze, flecked with those iridescent sparks of gold—and something in my chest stutters.
He has such intensity about him, as though he’s constantly trying to work me out.
It’s been a long time since a man has looked at me like that, but I tell myself it’s only because he now sees me as a piece of his artwork.
Maybe it means something more to him than me just being a client.
He’s imprinted a little bit of his soul onto my skin, binding us together in a strange way.
Kane catches me looking, focusing on him rather than the koi fish on my hip, and a smile quirks one side of his lips.
“So you’re happy with it?” he asks.
He blows a strand of blond hair out of his face. He still wears the gloves he had on for hygiene while he’d been tattooing me, so he isn’t able to tug his hand through his hair like he’d done before.
I nod, a smile stretching my face. I’ve be carrying that smile around with me all day, and the thought only makes me smile harder.
“Yeah, I love it. Thank you.”
“Great. Hop back up here, and I’ll put the dressing on it, and then you’re free to go.”
My stomach sinks in disappointment. Yeah, I’m free to go. I’ll just walk out of this tattoo studio, and, unless I book in for more ink, this will be the end of my time with Kane.
That’s exactly how it should be, I scold myself in a voice that sounds very similar to my sister’s.
Inappropriate young tattoo artists are not the sort of men a respectable woman in her thirties should be lusting after.
And yet, I can’t help myself. Something about this guy draws me to him, and I know I’ll feel disappointed when I walk out of the door.
I chide myself. I bet every woman who walks through his door feels exactly the same way.
No wonder the tattoo studio is so popular and gets so many great reviews.
No, that’s unfair. He’s an excellent artist, too.
Him being hot, sweet, and a little goofy with it, is just a bonus.
He finishes covering the new tattoo. “You might want to leave the jeans undone for a moment,” he says, assessing my waistline. “You don’t want it to rub.”
“Oh, right. Sure.” As he pointed out, I have enough hip to keep the jeans up without doing up the button. My top pulled down will cover the fact while I catch the Tube home again.
I grab my bag, and Kane sees me out to the reception to pay.
The petite brunette is still sitting at the desk, and a look passes between the American and Kane.
Realisation sinks in. Of course, the two of them must be dating.
Why wouldn’t they be? Kane’s hot, and she’s gorgeous, and they’re together all the time while they’re working.
It only makes sense that they’re dating.
Is that what the strange moment had been about when he’d first walked out of his room?
Had he felt awkward tattooing me while his girlfriend had been watching?
Yeah, that must be it. And to think I kidded myself into believing we might have had a bit of a moment. What an idiot I am.
He hands me a leaflet from the other side of the reception desk. “Here’s instructions on how to look after the tattoo. If you’ve got any questions, or anything is worrying you, just pick up the phone or come back in. Okay?”
I make a smile stretch my cheeks, but inside I’m no longer feeling it. “Great, thanks,” I take the offered leaflet. “I will do.”
I pay for the tattoo, wondering if I’m supposed to leave a tip, but then feeling awkward if it isn’t the done thing and I make myself look stupid. Damn. It’s one of the things I should have asked on the forum beforehand.
“Thanks, then,” I say, adjusting the strap of my bag on my shoulder and giving them one final smile.
“Bye, Holly.” His mouth opens and then closes again.
Does it seem like he was about to say something else but then didn’t? I turn away, sensing another moment between us, but not quite sure where it came from.
And as I walk towards the front door, in the reflection in the glass, the American elbows Kane in the side and he throws his hands up in the air in a ‘What can you do?’ gesture.
I don’t know what’s going on there—not that it’s any of my business.
I step out onto the street and take a breath of the not-so-fresh London air.
I hold myself tall, carrying my new artwork on my hip.
I got it in that place so I can show it off when I’m on holiday on the beach but can also easily hide it if I want to.
Right now, however, I wish I could tear off the cling film dressing and reveal it to the world.
I don’t particularly need to get home for once, everything’s being taken care of, but I don’t really have anywhere else to go.
It feels good to have a free weekend and be able to do whatever I want when I want.
When I’d been with my ex, Mike, he’d wanted to know exactly what I was doing every minute of the day.
Every second had to be accounted for to make sure I was doing something productive—cooking, cleaning, grocery shopping—and not just lying in a hot bubble bath with a good book, which was often all I felt like doing after a long day at work.
I want to do that now, but Kane warned me that I wasn’t to be taking any baths for at least a week, at least not until the scabs have all healed up over the tattoo.
Still, I could curl up on the couch and read or binge watch something on Netflix.
The journey home only takes about thirty minutes.
I catch the Tube, rocking and swaying with the train on the Northern line, then walking the ten minutes to my small, terraced, north London house.
I’m glad I managed to keep hold of the property in the breakup.
I’d worried Mike was going to put up more of a fight to keep it, but, with the money he made, he saw it as an investment.
The way London house prices are going, by the time we’re ready to sell and move on, we’ll have both made a decent sum on the place.
I also think Mike is secretly pleased to be able to leave our shabby little terrace behind.
He’s renting a modern flat on the Isle of Dogs now, and that suits his new lifestyle far better than this place.
Trouble is, because his name is on the deeds, Mike has a way of thinking this house is still his and that gives him the right to turn up whenever he feels like it.
I haven’t quite had the heart to change all the locks, though it’s tempting.
It’s early days yet, and I’ll have to see how things play out.
Either way, I think, as I place the key into the lock, I’m glad to be home.