Secret Temptation (The Barlowe Boys #3)

Chapter 1

NOVA

It’s a beautiful day for a carnival. The sky is a picture-perfect shade of blue, not a cloud in sight, the sun shining high overhead. All around me are the sounds of kids playing, laughter, music, and the delighted shrieks from the ride section on the other side of the field.

“Seriously, is there a better smell than that in the world?”

I raise my eyebrow at my boss. “Do you mean the tattoo ink or the horses in that barn over there?”

Linc laughs. “I mean the food, smart ass.”

I have to give him that. The scent of fried—and certainly unhealthy—things permeates the air. It’s been making me hungry all day, and I’m not the type to usually go for that kind of food.

Linc seems to read my mind, because he rolls his eyes. “I’m sure they have something disgusting and vegan around here somewhere too.”

“Vegan food isn’t disgusting,” I say automatically, because this is definitely an argument we’ve had before. Many, many times. But there’s not as much conviction as usual in my voice—the fried stuff really does smell amazing.

Between the sun overhead, the cheerful vibe, and the mouthwatering food smells, I should be having a great time—if only my boss hadn’t whined and begged until I agreed to the worst possible job at Empire of Ink’s vendor booth.

“Why do they have to be so wiggly?” I mutter, as another kid bounces up to my station. “And why on earth is there so much snot?”

“They’re children, Nova,” he says drily. “Wiggles and snot kinda come with the territory. Now be nice—those parents look like they have some serious money.”

“They also look like accountants,” I point out. “Probably not the most likely candidate for one of your tattoos.”

“You never know,” he says, plastering on his big, fake, public-service smile.

Of course, the khaki-clad parents don’t give the tattoo side of the booth a second glance. Little Susie wants a unicorn painted on her face, and they seem to be the type that let Little Susie have whatever she wants.

I get to it, trying my best not to let the kid’s excited bouncing mess up my work. Face painting isn’t exactly the pinnacle of my dream career, but that doesn’t mean I want to do a crappy job.

As annoyed as I am to have drawn the short stick in responsibilities today, I have to admit our set-up here is pretty ingenious.

Face painting and temporary tattoos draw in the kids and teens, while two fully qualified tattoo artists are available to ink simple, pre-planned designs on the more-adventurous adults.

I’d much rather be operating one of the tattoo machines myself, but Linc wasn’t exactly wrong when he pointed out that my co-worker Bowie’s giant black widow neck tattoo would probably scare the kids away.

So I’m stuck here turning small children into exotic animals and super heroes and applying garish-colored cartoony temporary tattoos to little arms and hands.

Not exactly the best use of my talents, but Linc promised we’d all be splitting tips, so I wasn’t going to turn down an extra day’s work.

Tattooing is fun, and all, but my main concern is making enough money to get my ass the hell out of North Carolina. If I need to paint a few bratty kid’s faces to add to my escape fund, so be it.

I finish up with the unicorn girl, holding up a mirror so she can see the finished result in all its pink and sparkly glory. She squeals with happiness, her parents give me a big-ass tip, and I decide maybe face painting isn’t so bad after all.

Three clients later I’m feeling slightly less positive about everything—I’m pretty sure that last pre-teen boy was looking down my shirt and the little girl after him sneezed all over me.

Linc gives me a sheepish smile as I attack my hands and face with a sanitizing wipe.

“Have I told you today that you’re a lifesaver? ”

“Yeah, yeah,” I mutter, taking another wipe to the lids on my jars of paint, just in case they caught some of the snot-spray.

“And beautiful as well,” he continues. “Incredibly beautiful. Not to mention sweet, and funny, and—”

“I’m not going to abandon you, Linc,” I tell him. “You can give it a rest.”

He pats my back and stands, stretching after several hours bent over a tattoo machine. “I’m gonna hit the head. Want me to grab you a churro or something on the way back?”

Even though I know it will probably make me feel crappy later, the thought of fried, crispy, sugary dough is too good to deny. “Sure.” I debate with myself for a short moment before deciding I may as well go all in. “Will you get me a slushee, too? Cherry if they have it.”

Bowie gasps from the far side of the booth, not looking up from the ankle piece he’s currently coloring in. “Is she actually going to consume red dye forty? Someone call the media.”

I give him my sweetest smile. “Fuck off, Bowie.”

“Mommy, she said a bad word,” a little voice loudly proclaims from the front of the booth. “Does she have to give me a dollar?”

I spin around, nearly falling off my rolling stool, to see that a small family has approached the booth while my back was turned. A little boy is looking up at me with wide eyes while the woman I assume to be his mother is clearly trying not to laugh.

“Nah, buddy,” the man at their side says. “The swear jar is only for your uncles.”

“And you, Daddy,” the boy says. “You swear the most.”

The guy rubs a hand over the back of his neck, looking at the kid’s mom. “You’re not supposed to tell your mommy that, Lucas.”

The woman just shakes her head before turning back to me. “Sorry about that,” she says. “My son wanted to look at your temporary tattoos?”

I fumble for the book of temporary tattoo options, feeling flustered. “I’m the one who’s sorry,” I say, knowing that my cheeks are heating. I hate how easily I blush. “I shouldn’t be cursing around kids.”

She makes a dismissive noise. “His dad and uncles own a bar. I promise you he’s heard worse.” She looks down at the kid. “You want to pick one out?”

“Yes!” he says, reaching for the book as he looks up at his dad. “Maybe they have a tiger one like you. We can be twins!”

The guy ruffles the kid’s hair, a soft look on his face. It makes my chest hurt a little, that expression of love and gentleness. It’s been a long time since anyone looked at me that way.

“We’re doing real tattoos today as well,” I tell the adults. “Smaller scale pre-designed stuff, flash art. Let me know if you want to see some of the eligible designs.”

“What do you say, babe?” The guy wraps his arms around the woman’s waist. “You ready to get your first ink?”

“Who’s getting ink?”

I glance back up to see three more men have joined the couple and the kid. Then I do a double take because…wow. Like, seriously. Just wow. I was too flustered by the swearing thing to really notice with the first guy, but now that there are four of them standing here, it’s impossible not to.

These guys are gorgeous. Like, action movie star handsome.

They’re built too, really tall and deliciously broad.

They’re all dressed in jeans and t-shirts and the cotton fabric seems to struggle to stretch over their shoulders and chests.

The shortest of the four, the guy wearing all black, has the best arms I’ve ever seen in my life.

The woman makes a small, amused noise under her breath and I realize that I’m staring, slack-jawed. I snap my mouth closed and give myself a mental shake. She’s looking at me with a smile, her eyes dancing as if to say, “I know, right?”

One guy leans forward to look over the kid’s shoulder at the temporary tattoo options, and I do another double-take. He looks exactly like the kid’s dad, identical enough that I’m sure they’re twins. The other two guys look pretty similar, too. Brothers?

I shake my head. It feels illegal for there to be that much hotness in one family.

I decide the only course of action is to not look at any of them, so I focus on the woman. “If you’re interested in getting some ink, I can walk you through the process.”

“Oh, no,” she says quickly, waving her hands. “My husband was just teasing me. He knows I’m way too much a wimp for that kind of thing.”

“What?” He grabs her again, pulling her back against his chest. “Babe, you’re a total badass.”

“Empire of Ink,” the guy in black murmurs, his attention on our sign. “I think I know that place. It’s over in Mount Casper?”

My resolve not to look directly at any of the god-like men cracks the moment he addresses me.

I swear, my knees actually feel a little weak as I take him in.

Though he’s the shortest of the flock of huge men standing in front of me, he’s still tall, well over six foot, and muscular without that gross gym-bro look.

He reminds me of an edgier version of Superman, with his dark hair and eyes and chiseled jaw.

But there’s definitely a darker layer to him, one that makes me want to look a little longer than is polite.

And those arms.

I didn’t think attractiveness like this existed in our little piece of crap corner of western North Carolina.

I remember that he asked a question before I started drooling over him, and shake myself out of it. “Yup,” I say, then wince at how high-pitched and unnatural my voice sounds. “We’re right on Main Street.”

The guy nods. “My buddy’s had some work done by the owner, I think. Linc? He raves about his ink, I keep meaning to go check him out.”

“He’s here today, if you want to consult on something.

” I feel both relieved and disappointed at the prospect of Linc being the one to ink this guy.

I would love to get my hands on the smooth, tanned skin in front of me, but I’m pretty sure being close to him like that would have me shaking too much to keep my tattoo machine steady.

“And he’s available to do anything from that book over there right at the fair this afternoon. ”