Chapter Ten
A Better Kind of Man
Quinn
There are moments when your brain suddenly decides to re-evaluate everything you thought you knew about a person.
For example, five minutes ago I thought Damien Grey was the quiet, slightly nerdy accountant who occasionally helped me carry groceries and had an unhealthy respect for spreadsheets.
Now? Now I know he’s also a walking piece of art with tattoos that could make a biker blush. Which is a lot for one brain to process before noon.
I sit on the black leather couch at House of Ink pretending to scroll through my phone while my thoughts run in a dozen different directions. Across the shop Damien is back at his desk like nothing unusual happened.
Laptop open. Glasses on. Typing calmly. Like I didn’t just walk in on him shirtless ten minutes ago.
I look away and then glance up again. Immediately. Because apparently I have no self-control today. He’s focused on the screen, completely unaware I’m watching him. Or he’s pretending not to notice.
Suddenly, my brain is replaying the image from the supply room like a slow-motion movie.
The phoenix across his chest. The flames curling along his ribs.
The way the ink moved with every stretch of muscle when he pulled his shirt over his head.
I can still remember the low, surprised sound he made when he realized I was standing there.
That image flashes in my mind—bare skin, heat in his eyes, and the unspoken tension that crackled between us even after he covered up.
I quickly look back at my phone. Good grief.
Get it together, Quinn. He’s your friend.
Your very tattooed friend. But still. Friend.
“Earth to Quinn.” I look up and see Skye is standing in front of me with her hands on her hips.
“Hello,” I say.
“You’ve been staring at Damien for the last thirty seconds.”
My face immediately heats. “I have not.”
“You absolutely have.”
“I was thinking.” The words fall from my lips without thought.
“About Damien?”
“No.” Too loud.
“Yes.”
I glare at her. “You’re insufferable.”
“And you’re blushing.”
I groan and drop my phone onto the couch. “I walked into the supply room earlier.”
Skye’s eyes light up instantly. “Oh, my God.”
“That’s not the reaction I was hoping for.”
“Did you see the tattoos?”
I blink. “You knew?”
“Of course I knew.”
“Well, that would have been nice information to share before I accidentally walked in on him half naked.”
She bursts out laughing. “Your face must have been priceless.”
“It was mortifying.”
“Was it, though?”
“Yes.”
“Or was it educational?”
I stare at her. “You’re impossible.”
“Tell me I’m wrong.”
I open my mouth and then close it again. Because technically, she isn’t wrong. The man looks good, really good. Which is a dangerous thought considering my current relationship status. Also, who knew I actually had a type.
“Nothing happened,” I say firmly.
Skye smirks. “Didn’t say it did.”
“But you were thinking it.”
“Maybe.”
I roll my eyes. “Focus on your work.”
“I am focused.”
“On gossip.”
“Same thing.”
I shake my head and stand up from the couch. “I’m getting more coffee.”
“Good idea.”
The coffee machine sits near the back of the shop next to Damien’s desk. Of course it does. Because apparently the universe enjoys making my life awkward today.
I grab a fresh cup and start pouring coffee when Damien’s voice appears beside me.
“You look like you’re trying to solve a complex math equation.”
He’s standing closer than I realized, the warmth from his body raising goosebumps along my arms. For a second, I wonder if he can hear how fast my heart is beating.
I jump slightly. “I didn’t hear you walk over.”
“I’m stealthy.”
“You’re an accountant.”
“Stealthy accountant.”
I glance up at him. His expression is calm, relaxed. Like the supply room incident didn’t faze him at all. How the hell is he this composed?
“I was just thinking,” I say.
“That’s dangerous.”
“So I’ve been told.” I add a little sugar to the coffee and stir it slowly. “Skye knew about the tattoos.”
“Everyone here does.”
“Except me.”
“You’re new.”
“That’s your excuse?”
“It’s the truth.”
I take a sip of coffee. Still warm. Still good.
“So,” I say carefully.
“So?”
“Why keep them hidden?”
He shrugs slightly. “Because they’re not for everyone.”
That answer surprises me. “Most people show tattoos off.”
“Most people want attention.”
“And you don’t?”
“Not particularly.”
I study him for a moment. Damien Grey has always been quiet. Observant. The kind of person who watches the room instead of dominating it. And suddenly I realize something.
“You notice everything, don’t you?”
His eyebrow lifts slightly. “What makes you say that?”
“You remember coffee orders. Grocery lists. Conversations from weeks ago.”
“That’s just memory.”
“No,” I say slowly. “That’s attention.”
He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he leans against the counter beside me.
“You notice things, too,” he says eventually.
“Like what?”
“Like when someone needs help.”
I blink. “That’s different.”
“Not really.”
We stand there quietly for a moment while the noise of the shop hums around us. Tattoo machines, music, and laughter.
“You’re a good guy, Damien,” I say finally.
He huffs a soft laugh. “Don’t tell anyone. I have a reputation to maintain.”
“What reputation?”
“The quiet guy who does taxes.”
“That’s not a reputation.”
“It is here.”
I smile. “Well, I’m ruining it.”
“Please don’t.”
“I already saw the tattoos.”
“Fair point.”
The conversation pauses again before he glances at me. “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“Why do you stay with him?”
The question lands gently but it still hits like a fist to my chest. “You mean Emette?”
“Yes.”
I stare into my coffee cup because the honest answer is complicated.
“He wasn’t always like this,” I say quietly.
“How was he?”
“Fun. Supportive. Different.”
Damien nods slowly. “And now?”
I hesitate. Because saying the truth out loud feels dangerous. “Now he’s ... stressed.”
“That’s the word you’re going with.”
“Yes.”
“Okay.” He doesn’t argue, which somehow makes the conversation feel heavier.
“I know what you’re thinking,” I say.
“I’m not thinking anything.”
“You think I deserve better.”
His eyes meet mine. “Do you?”
The question catches me off guard. “I don’t know.”
“You should.”
“Relationships take work.”
“So does self-respect.”
I blink. That sentence lands deeper than he probably intended. For a moment neither of us speaks before Skye’s voice cuts across the shop.
“Quinn! Emergency!”
I turn. “What now?”
“We’re out of cupcakes.”
I laugh despite myself. “I brought a dozen.”
“There are six artists here.” She looks put out having to explain this to me.
“Math.”
“Exactly.”
I shake my head. “I’ll bake more tomorrow.”
“Bless you.” She disappears again and I glance back at Damien.
He’s watching me with that thoughtful expression again.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing.”
“That’s not nothing.”
He smiles faintly. “I was just thinking.”
“About what?”
“You fit here.”
The words warm something in my chest. “I like being here.”
“Good.”
We stand there quietly for a second longer.
I look across the shop at the crew laughing and working together.
The noise. The warmth. The sense of belonging.
And a thought forms slowly in the back of my mind.
When I’m here, I feel like myself. When I’m with Emette, I feel like I’m constantly trying to be someone else.
I glance at Damien again only to find he’s already looking at me. Calm, patient, and kind. And suddenly one very inconvenient realization slips into my brain. Some men make you feel like you’re not enough.
Others make you wonder why you ever believed that in the first place.