Chapter 7 #2
“And why did you not tell us about it?” Grace demands.
“There’s nothing to tell,” I whisper back. “We met one time, when Mr. Davis first showed me the building. They were just getting here as I was leaving and he introduced us. That’s it.”
“What’s this about a parking spot?” Grace asks, eyebrows raised.
“He and his stupid motorcycle stole my parking spot,” I grumble, annoyed about it all over again. You stop to wave to someone for two seconds and a big idiot swoops in to steal your spot.
“He rides a motorcycle?” Grace asks, batting her eyes and fanning herself with one hand.
“Stop it,” I whisper-shout, grabbing her hand and putting it back down at her side. I peek over her shoulder to make sure Declan didn’t notice, but his head is still bent in conversation with Matt, who’s back to scribbling notes.
“What kind of business are they opening?” Olivia asks.
“I have no idea,” I tell her honestly. “Mr. Davis didn’t say and I never thought to ask.”
“Hey,” Grace calls out. “What kind of business are you opening?”
“Tattoo and piercing studio,” Sean calls back.
“A tattoo studio?” I repeat, just loud enough for my friends to hear. “I’m going to be working next door to people getting tattooed and pierced all day?”
“Oh, don’t be such a prude,” Grace chides. “Our town could use something fun like that. Olivia will probably be first in line to get inked,” she jokes.
Olivia rolls her eyes but she can’t fight the smile that tugs at her lips.
She’ll never live down the time she walked into a tattoo studio in Vegas on a whim and got a lighthouse tattooed on her wrist. Poor Cam (now her fiancé, but her friend with benefits slash cross-country road trip companion at the time) was so panicked that she’d regret it, he’d tried talking her out of it.
It was such an un-Olivia-like thing to do, but it suits her.
That adventurous side of hers has started to come out more and more since meeting Cam. She’s still the neurotic, type A planner we all know and love, but he brings out a freer side to her we didn’t get to see much of before.
While Declan and Sean continue chatting with Matt, I give my friends the quick rundown of the little info I have: Sean is from Port Myles; he moved away but he’s back to open up his own business.
Declan isn’t from here and I have no idea how they know each other.
The one bit of info Mr. Davis did tell me is that Declan plans to move here.
Mr. Davis is going to do a bit of work to one of the apartments upstairs and rent it out to him.
“We should probably get back over there,” Olivia says, nudging my arm. I look over and all three men are watching us with various shades of amusement on their faces.
“I’m going to stick around a bit and do a walk-through with them,” Matt says once we’ve rejoined their group.
I try to ignore the pang of annoyance over them poaching my contractor.
I should be happy for Matt. Who would have guessed that the teenager who wore a backward baseball cap and muscle tees everywhere, our high school graduation included, would someday be running one of the most successful businesses in Port Myles?
“Rain check on that lunch?” Matt asks. We’d been planning to head to Captain’s, per usual.
“Of course.”
“Thanks, Elsie.” Matt surprises me by pulling me into a quick hug. Behind us, someone grunts. “I’m excited to work on this with you. Thanks for hitting me up.”
The wave of nostalgia that washes over me catches me off guard.
This is the same guy we used to drink on the beach with, seated around a bonfire with cheap cans of beer and whatever else we could pilfer from our parents’ stashes.
Port Myles is a small town, and everyone more or less hung out together.
There were the few odd cliques here and there, but for the most part, we were all just kids growing up together, our friendships weathering the storms of puberty, breakups and everything in between.
I didn’t grow up here like most kids we went to school with – I didn’t move here until freshman year, when I was fourteen – but they welcomed me with open arms anyway, folding me into their crew of misfits that, for the most part, had known each other since kindergarten.
I want that for my future kids. I want them to grow up in a place where they know everyone.
A town where, when they walk across the stage at their high school graduation, they know every iteration of the faces around them – the chubby-cheeked kindergartner, the acne-ridden preteen, the sleep-deprived teenager who drank around a bonfire and still got up early to slog through a final exam the next day.
Big cities have their merits, but small towns – specifically this small town – has everything that I want.
Starting this business, building something tangible that will help me sink my roots deeper into Port Myles, is what I want more than anything. This town has my heart until I find someone I want to share it with.
“Hey, maybe we can plan things so our businesses open around the same time,” Sean suggests. “Might help bring in customers when they’ve got two new places to check out. And that way neither of us has to deal with talking to customers over the sound of construction on the other side.”
I mull it over, trying to picture it. It’s really not a bad idea, and it would be a pain trying to sell flowers over the sound of drills and hammering next door.
“That’s a good idea,” I tell him. “We can figure out what’s needed individually, then get together to work out a timeline?” I glance at Matt, who’s nodding along.
“Sounds good to me,” he says. “I’ll find out what Mike’s availability is and rope him in on this one, if I can. It’ll help speed things along.”
He’d explained earlier that he and his brother typically lead projects separately with their own crews, but they double team the bigger projects that need it.
“That sound good to you?” Sean asks Declan.
“Yep.”
“Nothing else to add?” Sean prods, a hint of amusement in his tone. He’s probably used to his friend’s general unpleasantness.
“Nope” is all Declan says in return.
We say our goodbyes and Matt assures me he’ll be in touch soon.
As I turn to leave, a hand reaches out and grabs my wrist, tugging me to a stop.
When I glance down, the sight of Declan’s inked hand wrapped around mine is jarring.
There’s a clock covering the space on the back of his hand, and some kind of letters of symbols on his fingers that I can’t make out from this angle.
Something about the sight – the feel – of his skin on mine makes my brain short-circuit. I have a fleeting vision of that same tattooed hand pulling my sundress up over my thighs, and wrapping possessively around my throat.
What the hell is wrong with me?