Chapter One #2
“We have received a complaint you tattooed a minor. The child’s mother filed the report, Mr. Matthews. She gave us your name and a copy of this photo a friend posted on a social media site of her getting it done.”
The men had introduced themselves, but their names escaped him, replaced with a burning desire to call them Thing One and Thing Two. Maybe reading Dr. Seuss over and over at five a.m. to his three-year-old niece after her epic pukefest was to blame.
“There must be some mistake.” He rubbed his hand back and forth over his head. Thing One slid a piece of paper toward him—he recognized her. He’d done a fucking killer job of the white king chess piece knocked down in front of the black queen.
Thankfully, Pixie, their studio manager, was a record-keeping stickler.
“Do you have the date and name?” Cujo asked, walking toward the filing cabinets behind the counter, unlocking them with the key on his chain.
“Hilary Franklin, last Friday,” Thing One said.
Cujo flipped through the file folders until he found what he needed. “I’m pretty certain section 3b of the statute says we aren’t at fault if the minor falsely represents herself and presents a fake identification. Hilary Franklin, Tampa. Gave me an ID saying she was twenty.”
Thing One looked at the document closely before passing it on to Thing Two.
“Can we get a copy, Mr. Matthews, please?” Thing One asked. He imagined what the guy would look like with the Dr. Seuss character’s crazy red hair and bit back a smile.
“Given it was in the last week, I could likely get you video footage of her giving the license to me.” He pointed up to the black bubble in the ceiling.
The CCTV in the shop was new, put in after Trent’s girlfriend, Harper, was kidnapped by her crazy ex.
In truth, they should have installed it the day they opened.
“That would be helpful, Mr. Matthews.”
One more thing for him to do. He looked quickly at the clock and silently cursed Trent for leaving him alone to manage the shop while Trent took Harper to Tahiti to scuba fuck or something.
He provided them with copies of the CCTV footage and the identification on file, then sent them on their way.
Cujo walked into the kitchen and poured a large, steaming mug of the coffee he’d brewed.
He sent a text to his sister-in-law, Elisa, to see how Zeph was doing.
Her exhausted call at four thirty that morning had him pulling on his clothes and jogging the four blocks to their house.
He’d never seen so much vomit come out of one little person.
Of all the nights for his brother to be out of town.
If Elisa hadn’t handed him the burrito on his way to the truck, he’d be starved as well as sleep deprived.
A banging on the door of the studio startled him. He returned to the front of the shop, which was supposed to be closed for another hour.
Drea. Shit.
Taking a sip of his coffee, he flicked the latch and let in the walking flash fire. They’d agreed to meet to plan Trent and Harper’s engagement party. Damn it.
“Good morning, Starshine,” he said as she marched past him. Christ, the woman was always on a mission. Yet smelled decidedly like a warm Cinnabon. And didn’t that make his stomach grumble?
“Hi,” Drea responded, barely making eye contact as she rifled through an oversized purse to retrieve a binder and pen. “Off to a slow start today, are we?” she said, looking at the paperwork on the desk.
Another reason why he hadn’t wanted to plan Trent and Harper’s engagement party with Harper’s best friend and coworker.
He bit the side of his tongue and checked the need to respond. “Want some coffee?”
“No thanks, I was up early enough for breakfast. Can we get started? I have to get to work soon. I have a list,” she said, tapping the perfectly buffed nail of her index finger on the binder.
The thought of her anywhere near a projectile-vomiting three-year-old made him smile. She was perfectly put together.
That damn hair of hers framed her face perfectly and bounced around like a shampoo commercial.
What had she done anyway? It used to be chocolate brown and long.
Now it had all those highlights the color of melted toffee and some gold pantone number he couldn’t remember.
He rubbed his hand over his head, the bristles of white blond hair growing in unfamiliar.
A cough cracked through the silence, and Cujo shook his head.
“The list?” Drea said, opening the binder to a tabulated index page.
Staying on the high road was going to be hell.
* * *
Christ, what she wouldn’t give for a coffee, but she wasn’t going to give Cujo the satisfaction of saying so.
She salivated at the nutty smell and had to stop staring as he lifted the steaming mug to his lips.
The toll of working the late shift for Harper, and battling to get her mom out of bed and up for the day, was pounding its way across the top of her head.
“Let’s go sit down in the back,” Cujo said, pointing toward the office.
Drea gathered her belongings and walked down the short hallway. She loved the office. The long gray sofa looked so inviting, and the cushions were the perfect resting place for her pounding head. One minute on that sucker and she’d be asleep faster than you could say “Good night, Dixie.”
Drea pulled out one of the chairs from what she assumed was a light table for tracing pictures on. The chair was white, practical and, more important, hard enough to keep her awake. She plopped her binder down on the glass surface and waited.
Cujo sauntered into the office like they had all the time in the world. He placed one of the cups he carried next to her pens.
“I said I was fine,” she commented, wondering if it would appear rude to drag the cup over and inhale the contents.
“Yeah, well, the drool trail I had to step over to get to the kitchen says you’re a liar,” Cujo replied, the corner of his mouth hitched in a smile. “I didn’t know how you liked it but assumed black.”
Drea lowered her gaze to the table, using her hair to hide her amusement at his comment. She took several sips, the strong flavor hitting her taste buds in all the right places. “Why black?”
“It reminded me of you … bitter, without a hint of sugar.”
Drea looked up and scowled. “Wow. Harsh,” she said, disappointed as the feeling of inordinate pleasure from the coffee slipped away. She put the cup back on the table and reopened her binder.
“So I called around, and there are three historic buildings with availability at such short notice. I found two caterers who can do the food. We just need to provide numbers and they’ll—”
“Hold up.” Cujo cut her off. “It all sounds a bit provincial.”
“Provincial?” Drea said surprised. “That’s a lot of syllables for you, isn’t it?”
“Funny. Amazing what you can learn from Beauty and the Beast. You know when Belle sings about leaving her provincial town?… No?” His expression implied the unstated ‘obviously.’
Drea shook her head, confused at the direction he was taking her in, but amused he knew the movie well enough to quote it.
“It sounds like a Martha Stewart wedding for Connecticut trust fund babies,” he continued. “This is their engagement party. We need something way more fun and relaxed.”
“You want it laid-back so it doesn’t take much effort on your part to organize. That’s just lazy.” Their friends deserved the best party they could deliver, not the easiest. Why did she have to get stuck with a man who felt the opposite?
Cujo slouched on the sofa, his legs stretched out in front of him as he stared at her with piercing blue eyes so vibrant they reminded her of the cloudless summer skies Florida was known for. And he was smirking. Drea tapped her pen on the glass tabletop.
“Relax, Shortcake,” Cujo drawled, leaning forward until his elbows rested on his knees.
He held his cup in both hands. Damn, if that didn’t make his biceps flex.
The sleeves of his white V-neck stretched across his muscles.
Kaleidoscopic tattoos covered one arm from bicep to hand.
Words, numbers, and images intertwined in a tight jumble to fill every inch of skin.
The other didn’t have a single tattoo. “All I’m suggesting is Harper and Trent have been through enough.
They’d prefer a more low-key engagement party to some fancy penguin-suit and pearls thing where we all stand around feeling stupid.
It’s got nothing to do about how much work it is to organize.
I just know it’s not Trent’s thing, or Harper’s—at least not after what happened. ”
Had it really been three months since Trent had called her with those frightening words? Drea, he found her. Nathan found Harper. We’re on our way to the hospital. Can you meet us there?
Nathan, Harper’s ex, had terrorized her from prison until probation offered him the perfect opportunity to make good on his threats to find her. Guess that’s what happens when you release a drug-addicted sociopath from prison early.
Thankfully, it strengthened Harper’s relationship with Trent, leading to a marriage proposal shortly before the trip they were currently enjoying.
She looked toward the sofa. Cujo had grown his hair out.
He’d been bald when they’d met in a pool hall months ago.
Now it was blond, lighter than the color of Miami Beach sand, and softer.
It was less military, and more … well, she didn’t want to dwell on the more.
Mortification overcame her as she recalled the great first impression she must have made when she told him he looked like a bully.