Ink Beneath Starlight (The Queensland Duet #1)

Chapter 1

the first chapter

MARCO

brISBANE, AUSTRALIA - PRESENT DAY

Every love story has a beginning.

And my love story is running more than forty minutes late. But I’m completely unaware that my life is about to tip sideways. Falling for someone isn’t something you can measure in hours. You can’t schedule it neatly between meetings. Which is why love hasn’t been on my to-do list for years.

So this morning, I have more important things to worry about.

Like blueberry tarts and lopsided photo backdrops.

◆◆◆

Here’s how it unfolds.

It’s a Friday.

But as an event planner, Friday feels like Tuesday.

I arrive half an hour early, as I do for most setups.

Even the most tedious clients deserve my utmost professionalism.

The streets of Fortitude Valley are still easing into daylight.

The usual chaos of the nightlife district has been temporarily subdued.

A few delivery vans idle along the curb.

A bar down the block has its shutters halfway open.

Someone hoses the pavement clean of last night’s spilled beer and glitter.

Despite the early morning hour, the valley hums with energy.

A quiet promise of the chaos that will return after dark.

I stand on the footpath for a moment, squinting.

I’m trying to picture how this building will look when it’s all lit up for our event.

The sign was only installed last week.

Ink by Amos, it says.

Amos sounds like a snob, by the way.

I haven’t actually spoken with him directly.

Not yet.

But judging by the who’s who guest list for this launch?

Bet he’s got an ego bigger than his dick.

I didn’t even want to do this gig to be honest.

Roz finally convinced me it would be good for our portfolio.

I’ve mostly been dealing with his assistant, Vonnie.

She speaks about him as though the sun shines out of his ass.

Guess he’s used to having people fawn all over him.

Waiting list is the length of Brunswick Street to book a tattoo session with him.

Spare me.

I don’t have time for pretentious wankers like that.

So the sooner we get tomorrow’s party over and done with, the better.

The minute we’re done, I’m out of there.

Never gonna hear the name Amos Vale again.

I might drive out to the lake for a few days.

The perfect escape to recover from all this nonsense.

◆◆◆

What’s next on my checklist?

Florist. Caterer. Photographer.

That’s all tracking nicely so far.

Where are we going to set up the guest arrival area?

Let me do a walk through.

The studio is gorgeous, I have to admit.

Glass frontage stretches across most of the ground floor.

At reception, the name is etched in clean metallic lettering.

Warm timber panelling curves to one side.

Subtle lighting strips merge along the floor and ceiling.

At night they will glow softly.

Cool, atmospheric, and understated.

The kind of detail that elevates a space from ordinary to memorable.

At least somebody here understands presentation.

I slip my hands into my pockets, observing the angles, flow, and sight lines.

In my mind, the empty pavement outside transforms instantly.

The guest arrival area will begin just past the doorway.

Velvet ropes will guide the entry.

And then, a branded media wall along the left side.

Photographers can capture shots of notable figures.

Inside, the layout unfolds automatically in my mind.

Catering tables along the back wall.

Champagne station near the center.

Easy access, high visibility.

Music tucked into the corner without overwhelming conversation.

I nod to myself.

Yes, this will work nicely.

◆◆◆

I pull a slim tablet from the leather folio under my arm.

My finger moves with quick, efficient strokes as I tick items off the list.

This event has to be flawless.

Rumour has it that well known musicians will be attending.

NRL players. A handful of fashion socialites.

One or two Australian actors.

Brothers beginning with H.

The ‘it crowd’ will be here.

And tomorrow night, I’ll be responsible for how the entire thing unfolds.

A small flicker of pride rises in my chest.

Quiet recognition of the life I have built for myself.

Eleven years ago, none of this would have been remotely possible.

Back then, I was a completely different man.

But I don’t have time for melancholic reflection.

Time to focus.

The meeting is scheduled for nine o’clock sharp.

He’ll be here any minute.

Crossing back toward the entrance, I skim the talking points.

Catering samples. Guest flow. Lighting cues.

I wait by the doorway.

Amos is nowhere to be seen.

I hover there for about fifteen minutes.

Still no sign of him.

My phone begins to ring.

The florist is running late too.

Of course she is.

The door opens behind me while I’m still on the call.

“No,” I reply firmly, pacing slowly across the floor. “The delivery window needs to stay where it is. If the florals arrive after six we can't test the lighting before guests arrive.”

Porter and Deacon step inside carrying three large catering crates between them.

At least everyone else is here on time.

I raise a hand to greet them, without breaking the call.

Pointing down the corridor, I show him where the kitchen is.

They acknowledge the gesture with a quick tilt of their heads.

Deacon follows beside him.

I can’t help but smile, seeing the two of them together.

“Yes,” I repeat as calmly as possible. “I understand that you would like your calendula lilies kept at a certain temperature. But that doesn’t change my client's schedule.”

The studio comes to life with rhythm and sound.

Tables unfold. Equipment shifts across the floor.

Someone tests a speaker that thumps twice with a low pulse of bass.

I close my eyes briefly, giving myself a pep talk.

Control the variables. Solve the problems.

That’s my job.

“Fine,” I huff. “Send me the updated ETA.”

Ending the call, I slide the phone into my pocket.

One crisis contained. I can deal with the rest later.

◆◆◆

Still no Amos.

Where the fuck is he?

I push through the kitchen door.

“Porter,” I smile. “How was traffic?”

My arm curves around his shoulders, a friendly back pat as always.

He laughs awkwardly, perhaps not used to hugging other men in front of his crush.

I lean in slightly, lowering my voice to a whisper.

“Your bearded friend is super cute, I can see why you're blushing.”

“Shut up,” he whispers.

“Have you told him yet?”

He shoots me a look as if to say: Keep your voice down.

I let my arm drop away.

Time to survey the half assembled platters on the prep table.

The food looks incredible already.

Clean presentation. Great color balance.

He hasn’t lost his touch.

“Looks divine, just as I expected.”

“Just a few samples for them to try,” he grins.

I nod quietly, taking another peek at the man I’ve heard so much about.

Tall and mysterious. Leaning against the counter.

He’s mentioned this guy more than once over the past few weeks.

Always casually.

Always pretending that it doesn’t mean anything.

I know my friend too well to believe that.

Deacon observes me cautiously.

Shit, has Porter told him that we used to…?

That was a million years ago.

And we weren’t even official.

It’s no big deal.

I think they look cute together.

It’s good to see him finally moving on from his breakup with Sutton.

Oh look… that’s adorable.

They keep moving toward each other when one of them steps away.

I feel like I should be holding popcorn while I watch this little rom-com unfold.

When he turns around, I give the thumbs up.

Nice ass. A kind voice. Beautiful dimples.

He seems comfortable in his own skin.

Could do a lot worse.

And they’ve worked together for a few years I think.

God, that’s so much better than the bottom of the barrel options on dating apps.

Time to give him a nudge.

He needs to tell this boy how he feels.

“So,” I ask casually, “How’s Caloundra treating you two?”

They nod politely, but avoid looking at me.

For someone who’s known me for more than a decade, he’s being super formal.

“Good thanks,” he replies, clearly on his best behaviour after that hug.

I hold in a laugh.

He’s so hopeless at telling someone he likes them.

Perhaps I should spell it out in vegetables on the counter:

Kiss him, you idiot.

A mouth watering aroma drifts from the oven as it’s opened.

I reach for one of the tasting spoons.

They don’t even look up.

“Has this guy made you breakfast yet? He’s a magician with food.”

Porter glares at me, giving a warning look far sharper than the knife he’s holding.

Deacon's mouth twists into a smile even though he’s trying his best to hide it.

Interesting. Maybe that’s a yes?

I love to watch love unfold.

It’s fun to watch people flirt with each other.

Sadly, it hasn’t happened for me in many years.

Probably never will.

I’ve had my heart broken at least twice already.

Last thing I need is a man in my life.

I barely have the time.

◆◆◆

Still no Amos.

It’s been more than half an hour.

What an inconsiderate asshole.

Probably thinks the world revolves around him, selfish prick.

I relax my shoulders.

Stop hating the client, I tell myself.

I nudge my friend toward the door.

“Come on,” I say. “I'll show you the setup.”

He grabs a cloth and wipes his hands as he follows me out of the kitchen.

I don’t look back.

But I have the feeling that Deacon is watching us leave.

My team have been ready for almost an hour.

The space looks incredible.

Everything has been measured, positioned, and checked off the list.

I push a chair slightly closer to the wall, then step back.

“You’ve moved that three times,” Roz says.

I poke my tongue out at her.

All we need now is for this tardy prick to walk through the space and sign off.

If he ever bothers to show up.

I check my watch again.

Almost quarter to ten.

Porter elbows me gently.

“Quit stressing, okay? He’s an artist. They’re allergic to clocks.”

But this guy isn’t just any tattoo artist.

His work has been featured in international magazines.

He gets tagged in posts by people who get asked for autographs.

The opening of his studio is already creating a buzz online.

My company will be on the radar of an entirely new tier of clientele.

At last, the door opens.

A woman enters, stylish and confident, red hair swept to one side.

She smiles politely as she approaches.

“You must be Marco,” she says warmly.

I step forward to shake her hand.

“Vonnie James. I just spoke with Amos. He's running a little late.”

You don't say, I grumble silently.

“We're ready when you are,” I reply cheerfully.

Her thumb taps the phone screen.

She lets it ring for a moment.

No answer.

“He’s probably stuck in traffic,” she bluffs.

Her thumb taps again. Still nothing.

Porter raises an eyebrow.

By now, I’m fuming.

This extreme lack of punctuality is beyond disrespectful.

Who the hell does this guy think he is?

Wasting everybody's morning just because he’s… fucking gorgeous.

Oh sweet mercy.

The front door opens with a casual push.

No rush. No apology.

Just the easy breezy vibe of someone who couldn’t care less about rules.

He carries a takeaway coffee in one hand.

The cup is crushed slightly from his grip.

His sleeves have been pushed back.

Ink wraps from wrist to elbow in layered designs.

This work is intricate, crafted with intimate intention.

The kind of artwork that has been curated thoughtfully over several years.

He strolls in as though he’s arriving on a beach.

“Morning.”

His voice is deep and heavenly.

But his lack of remorse cuts like an insult.

Vonnie peers up from her phone with visible relief.

“We agreed to meet at nine,” I say.

I’m doing my best to keep my tone professional.

“Did we?”

He turns toward me, taking a slow sip of his beverage.

Fancy shoes. Pants that hug him in all the right places.

Those chocolate eyes melt into me.

He can probably tell that my feathers have been ruffled.

But he seems to find it amusing.

“I’m here now,” he shrugs.

◆◆◆

My jaw tightens.

Across the room, Porter turns away to hide a smile.

Amos steps closer.

This man is absurdly attractive.

Dark brown hair, slightly messy in waves.

Makes me want to run my hands through it.

Thick shoulders beneath an expensive navy blue shirt.

Tattoos adding an edge of recklessness.

He eyes me with curiosity.

Vonnie hands him a copy of the plans.

He scans them quickly, but seems more interested in his phone.

Just sign the damn paperwork so we can go, I seethe.

He locks eyes with me, handing her his empty coffee cup.

He reaches for my collar.

“Is that Balmain?” he asks.

I nod, unable to speak.

We’re standing too close.

His musky cologne almost undoes me.

But I refuse to step back, redirecting his gaze to the plans.

“Guest arrival begins here. We’ll have lighting along the walkway and...”

I pause.

For half a second my brain simply stalls.

Because Amos has leaned closer to look at the map.

Close enough that our arms are touching.

I can hardly breathe.

Clearing my throat, I continue quickly.

“And the bar setup will run along this side.”

He nods slowly, studying the layout.

“Mmm,” he moans, turning the page. “No, I'd like to keep it simple.”

I force myself to remain calm.

You want simple? I think.

Go fuck yourself. I don't do simple.

Can’t he see how much effort I’ve put into this?

I’ve spent hours dreaming of the perfect night with him.

For him, I mean.

For him.

My fists clench at my sides, but my eyes betray me.

They keep drifting toward those tattoos.

Lines and shapes weave across his arms.

So many stories behind them, I bet.

Intricate and meaningful.

One curves around his wrist like a dark vine.

Something about them makes me nervous.

An unsettling sense of familiarity that I can’t immediately place.

Amos finally straightens, stepping closer than ever.

Deliberately this time.

“So,” his voice is intimate. This is a game for him. “Where do you want me?”

I swallow.

Eyes on the page, I remind myself.

“Here,” I stammer, tapping the corner of the diagram.

He runs a finger across the paper.

“You know,” he says. “I might just play it by ear and see how I feel tomorrow night.”

Our shoulders brush again.

His eyes are even more captivating in close proximity.

I melt into a puddle.

Across the room, Porter folds his arms as though this is a spectator sport.

Two opposing weather systems collide.

Me: precise, controlled, determined to manage every detail.

Amos: relaxed, spontaneous, entirely resistant to being managed.

And yet here we stand, side by side, electricity humming between us.

I shuffle the documents again, veering the conversation back to logistics.

But even as we review final details, something has shifted.

This is no longer just a routine meeting.

Control and chaos have overlapped.

Fuck.

This wasn’t part of my plan.

He's a client, I remind myself.

Keep your thoughts in line.

But this man is trouble, and I know it.

The most dangerous kind of distraction.