Chapter 14
I slump down into the cool black leather of my client chair, knees bent to prop up my drawing tablet.
After queuing up a playlist on my phone, I recline the seat slightly and angle myself away from the aisle that runs the length of the shop.
Hopefully the headphones snug over my ears will deter anyone from talking to me.
My knuckles pale as I grip the stylus firmer than I should, so I take a deep breath and relax my hold until it’s comfortable in my hand.
Thoughts wander as I make the first few strokes of a face. Realism has been my main priority lately; it’s one of the hardest styles to master. There’s so much precision and attention to detail required, not to mention a profound understanding of light and shadow, demanding daily practice.
Feminist anthems belt through the headphones, but the songs fade into the background as my concentration settles in, softening my anger.
The crushed roses near the front door might as well have been a confession.
They weren’t a sign of Jason’s remorse, they were bait.
His apology should have been as loud as his disrespect, and there’s no florist in town with enough stock to make up for cheating.
However, my current attitude is aimed toward Logan and the way he seemingly revels in stirring up trouble in my life lately—starting with Sunday night’s photo shoot.
What the hell was that?
Was he fucking with me? Was he simply creating a sexy atmosphere for our shoot? Whatever it was, it was . . . new. Until recently, he’s never given me any reason to suspect he harbors feelings. We’re close friends, for sure, but never more than that.
Oh fuck. Have I misjudged his intentions this entire time?
The stylus slips from my fingers and into my lap.
No. There’s no way. He would have said something by now.
I pick up my pen and keep working while I overanalyze every interaction we’ve had over the last two weeks.
If it were anyone else, I’d think there was a likelihood—but this is Logan. He can’t be held to the same standards.
My chest tightens and I swallow the lump in my throat. I should ask if Frankie wants to grab drinks after work; I could use some girl time—I need to step away from all of this so I can gain some perspective. My own feelings have made this already confusing situation even more disorienting.
Dad’s letter was filled with relationship advice, but I’m done with fragile egos and bullshit.
Logan can do whatever the hell he wants, it’s his life.
I’m not going to wait around with bated breath for him to open up to me and explain himself.
It’s an exercise in futility. I have enough on my plate, like getting my career off the ground and making a name for myself, and the Bozeman Tattoo Festival.
My pen glides across the screen as I add more detail and structure to the man I’m drawing, sketching out glasses over the smoldering eyes that stare back at me. Damn it. I’m drawing Logan.
Groaning, I tap the corner of my screen to erase the canvas.
I throw my head back against the headrest and inhale a renewing breath.
Glancing down at the blank screen, I start over, this time drawing my mom.
I’ve practiced her figure numerous times before.
I only know her from photos, but I’ve memorized her face.
She’s a beauty. I wonder if she ever dealt with any of this shit with Dad.
Probably not, Dad worshipped the ground she walked on.
Which is the only thing I’ll accept going forward.
I sigh, adding the high cheekbones I inherited from her.
Yeah, this calls for drinks. Normally, Logan is the person I talk things out with, but not this time. I need a break from him to determine how I feel before we hash out what happened—because he owes me an explanation. He’s not sweeping that fight under the rug.
Climbing out of the chair, I make my way toward the front desk, where Frankie is scheduling an appointment over the phone. I move around the desk and fold my hands together. She smiles at me while finishing her call.
When she hangs up, Frankie tucks her black textured curls behind her pierced ears and angles her chair toward me.
“How may I help you?” she asks sweetly, drumming her fingers on the desk.
I wonder if she’d ever let me draw her. Her warm sienna skin tone is beautiful, and matches her bright brown eyes.
“Hey, what are you doing after work?” I ask.
“Nothing, why?”
“Wanna go out for drinks?”
She gives a delayed blink. “Oh my God. Yes!” Her voice lowers to a whisper. “Did you hear about what happened earlier?”
I match her hushed volume. “With Jason? I didn’t see the whole thing. I’m still trying to figure out what the hell went down between them.” I roll my eyes. “I need to vent.”
Frankie checks the computer screen. “I’m done at six, but I’m all caught up on emails, so I’ll see if I can head out in twenty. Let’s go to that new place that just opened on Quail Street. I hear they have a solid happy hour, we might be able to catch the tail end of it.”
My smile grows. “Excellent. I’m going to wrap up my work and then meet you over there.”
As quickly as I can, I clean up my space, wiping down the countertops and chair with sanitizer, making sure everything is in its rightful place for tomorrow. By the time I’m done, I have a few minutes left, so I open Instagram while waiting for Frankie.
After some mindless scrolling, I check my DMs, which mostly consist of people haggling on prices or asking about commissions. Then I check my message requests folder: only one.
WhiteShirtBlackSkirt762: You will never replace me.
My brow furrows and I click their user name.
Zero followers and zero following. Rolling my eyes at the fake profile, I block the account.
After grabbing my purse from inside the cabinet, I hook it over my shoulder and get ready to walk out.
That’s when I catch my reflection in the large mirror—my outfit: white shirt, black skirt. What the fuck?
“Hey, ready to go?” Frankie asks, peeking her head into my station.
I startle, tearing my eyes away from the mirror. “Yeah, for sure. Just heading out.”
The new restaurant has a modern sleek look, with living vines climbing the walls.
Chic lighting fixtures illuminate the wooden tables with cozy seating—we managed to snag one just in time because a line is forming at the host stand.
Tajin rims the edge of my glass, where a delightful mango margarita fills it to the brim.
It’s dangerously delicious, pairing perfectly with the chips, salsa flight, queso, and Mexican street corn we ordered from the happy hour menu.
“Who do you think sent it?” Frankie asks.
I scoff. “Probably Jason, if the events of today are any indicator.”
“Yeah, can we please talk about that? I still can’t believe Logan punched him!” Frankie gushes. “The man who barely says two words to anybody suddenly decides he’s going to square up?”
He’s never once shown aggression the way he did today.
“I can’t make sense of it,” I reply. “I’ve never seen him go off like that.
And why won’t he tell me what they were fighting about?
” The way he looked earlier is burned into my memory.
The fire in his eyes was savage—and completely foreign.
He’s the calm one, the unshakable zen artist. Before today, he could have told me he was a pacifist and I wouldn’t have blinked.
So what the hell happened between him and Jason that led to fists being thrown?
Frankie lets out a dry laugh and plucks a chip from the basket, scooping up a dollop of guacamole. “Oh gee. I wonder.”
I roll my eyes. “It’s not like that. He’s just always been there. We get each other—”
“Yeah, and now he wants to get more.” She cocks a brow, sitting back in her seat and crossing her arms over her chest. “With Jason out of the picture, he’s making sure it stays that way.”
“He’s protective by nature, Logan guards everything my dad built,” I say, pushing my finger through the ring of condensation on the table.
“He steps in to make sure things are taken care of now that I’m on my own.
He helps me out in the attic. He’s my mentor.
He cares about the shop, tattooing, and Dad’s wishes. ”
Frankie rolls her lips together, nodding at me with raised brows while she holds back a smirk.
“We accept each other the way we are and offer support when the other needs it. Besides . . .”
“Besides?”
“I lend a shoulder if he needs to talk, but that’s the thing—he doesn’t share his life or feelings with me the same way I share mine with him.
I don’t know what’s going on in his mind, and I never will.
” My voice softens. His silence hurts. “All this time, it felt like we shared some sacred connection, forged through our shared passion of art and tattooing, but almost everything I know about Logan I’ve learned through observation . . . Maybe I don’t know him at all.”
“You know him. You know him better than anyone. He even invites you to spend the holidays with him and his family.”
“Yeah, because he knows I don’t have anywhere to go.”
She pauses, nailing me with a blank expression before brushing the salt off her fingers. “Oh come on, Kel.”
“What?”
“Are you serious right now? Have you seen the way he looks at you?”
I blink at her. It’s like she’s not listening to a word I’m saying.
We stare at each other for a beat. Her eyes relax and she cocks her head to the side. I startle when she slaps both palms on the table. “Wait, do you seriously not realize he’s into you?”
“Did he say something to somebody?” I sip the cold, sweet margarita.