Chapter 6 #2
“Nova,” Kendall, Linc’s little sister and our receptionist, calls from the front. She refuses to use the intercom system—pretty sure she doesn’t know how. “Someone here for you,” she shouts. Then she adds, not lowering her voice in the slightest, “he’s crazy hot, girl.”
I roll my eyes. This is who Linc thinks is still an innocent virgin in need of his protection?
When I get to the front, she’s leaning over her desk, giving the guy an eyeful of her cleavage. He’s not looking, though. Instead, his dark eyes are locked on me as I walk through the doorway.
Lawson Barlowe.
I’m tempted to turn right back around and leave him to Kendall. Didn’t Linc say she hooked up with one of his brothers? Maybe she’d enjoy comparing the two.
Before I can storm off, he takes a step forward, his eyes intense on my face, just like they’d been that night we met.
The night he made you come in a freaking hot air balloon before completely ghosting you, I remind myself, before those eyes can give my lady parts any ideas.
“Nova.”
It’s all he says, just my name. But it brings an onslaught of memories crashing into me. His dry flirtations. All the dirty things he’d whispered in my ear that night. The way he sounded so defeated when I told him I had to go.
I grit my teeth, refusing to be swayed by this man. “What can I do for you, Lawson?”
He holds my gaze for a long moment before giving a little shrug. “You owe me a tattoo.”
I stare at him, struck speechless by his fucking nerve. He disappears for nine days and shows up and says that shit? I should let Linc do his damn tattoo and never think about him again.
“Nova,” he says again, lower this time, and he takes a step toward me. “I was…I hoped we could talk. While I get my tattoo.”
I study his face, trying to decipher what’s going on in his head. He looks grumpy and a little sheepish and very regretful. “Please,” he says, the word going straight to my chest.
This is dangerous, the warning voice in my head helpfully points out. This man is still getting to me, even after he treated me like shit.
“Please, Nova,” he says again, and I sigh. I never have been good at listening to that voice.
“You’re paying full price for the tattoo.”
His lips tilt up in one corner. “Of course.”
“And you’re giving me a huge fucking tip.”
He’s full-on smirking now. “I wouldn’t dream of doing anything else.”
He follows be back to my station in silence, and I guess I’m relieved he’s not trying to make small talk. That would just piss me off all over again.
“You can sit over there,” I tell him, gesturing to a chair in the corner while I grab my sketch pad and portfolio. I take a seat across from him, as far away as I can manage. “So. What are you thinking?”
“I’m thinking you look even better than I remember.”
My eyes snap up to his, immediately narrowing. “We’re not flirting, Lawson. You said you wanted to talk while I give you a tattoo but if trying to get in my pants is what you have in mind, you can turn right back around.”
He holds his hands up in defense. “Not trying to get in your pants. Just answering your question.”
I sigh. “I meant what are you thinking in regards to the tattoo?”
“I’ve got an open spot right here.” He puts his palm high on his chest, up near his collarbone. “It’s making my chest piece look off-balanced.”
I fight back my groan. A high chest tatt means taking his shirt off. It means me leaning over him, our faces inches apart.
Is he doing this on purpose?
“And what do you want to fill the open spot?”
He shrugs. “I’m open to suggestions. Maybe you could take a look and see what you think would mesh with the current design?”
He’s definitely doing this on purpose.
I straighten my shoulders. I can handle this. He wants to take his shirt off, great. No biggie. If he thinks this is going to get to me, he has another think coming.
I gesture at his shirt. “Let’s see it then.”
I can tell he’s fighting a smile as he lifts the hem of his henley—black, again, and just as tight as the tee he’d worn at the fair.
Then his shirt comes off and I forget all about that night at the fair. Hell, I’m pretty sure I forget a good portion of the English language.
Lawson Barlowe was already the most attractive man I’d ever seen, but now? His chest is a work of art—literally. He sports a gorgeous array of tattoos and I’m struck with the crazy desire to run my fingertips over all that ink. Whoever did this work is damn good at what they do.
The muscles and the smooth olive skin under the tats aren’t bad either. The man looks like he’s sculpted from marble, all hard planes and sharp lines. I want to run my tongue over his pecs and down—
Get it together, Nova, I tell myself, forcing my eyes off his body.
He’s grinning now, fully enjoying my reaction.
For a split second I think about getting mad or maybe even embarrassed by my obvious ogling.
But I meet his eyes and something about the little spark I see there has me grinning right back.
Then I’m laughing and so is he, the tension draining from the room.
“You play really dirty, Lawson Barlowe,” I tell him.
He shrugs. “I knew it was going to be an uphill battle getting you to talk to me again. Figured I’d better pull out all the stops.”
I shake my head, still chuckling. “Do you even want a chest tattoo? Because that ink doesn’t look unbalanced at all.”
“Nah. I was actually thinking something over here.” He points to a spot on his arm, just below his shoulder. He seems to be working toward a whole sleeve but he’s still got a way to go.
I slide my rolling chair closer to get a look at the blank space he pointed out.
“For the record, showing me your biceps would have worked just as well as the chest,” I mutter, and he laughs.
Up close like this, the sound is seductive, all low and rumbly.
I focus on his skin, trying to stay professional.
“You’ve got about three inches across. We could take it up to the shoulder as far as you want. Maybe work off the skull and clock motif you have going on your forearm.”
“I like that. Wanna draw it up for me?”
I raise an eyebrow. “You don’t want to see my portfolio to make sure my style matches?”
He shrugs. “Styles don’t need to match perfectly. Besides, I like being able to tell which artist did each piece.”
The thought of my art on him for the rest of his life sends a thrum of heat low in my belly. Years from now, when I’ve left North Carolina far behind and he’s picking up his latest conquest at a county fair, will he look at this piece and think of me?
I’m not sure how I feel about that.
I get to work on the sketch and he sits in silence. I can feel his eyes on me, but he doesn’t say anything. It reminds me of the day at the fair, how he’d stood at my booth, not saying a word all that time his brother was flirting.
The tension between us is starting to ramp up again.
“How’s this?” I ask, holding up the sketch. I kept it on the smaller side, figuring I may as well get him out of here as quickly as possible. He studies the pocket watch wrapped in a twisting, thorny rose and grins.
“Fucking amazing. Way too good for a puny three-inch tattoo.” He taps his side, just under his ribs. “Let’s do it here and make it big. Maybe add a few more roses?”
“How big are you talking? Because my shift is almost over.”
“I think it would kick ass if it covered most of my side.” He shrugs. “We don’t have to start tonight. We can consider this my consultation.”
“So you want to come back?”
His eyes meet mine and I see the regret there. Suddenly, it all comes crashing back into me. The immediate chemistry I’d felt that day at the fair. How magnetic our connection seemed to be. How good he made me feel. How much I liked him, damn it.
And then I think about him disappearing without a word for nine days.
“I’m really sorry, Nova,” he says, his voice low.
“Why didn’t you call me?” God, I feel like such a cliche. I never let guys get close enough to have a conversation like this and I hate that I’m acting like a scorned girlfriend with him.
He swallows. “I freaked out. There’s some…some family stuff going on.” He winces around the word family, something about his expression suddenly guilty. Then he straightens his shoulders, eyes locking on mine. “It had nothing to do with you, okay? You didn’t do anything wrong.”
Except I did. I let someone in, and in my experience, that’s never the right thing to do.
“I was all in my head,” he continues, holding my gaze. “I knew if I got in touch with you I would be too distracted. It didn’t feel fair.”
“So why come here, then?” I ask. “It’s been nine days. Why not just let it go?” I realize that I’ve just admitted to knowing exactly how long has passed since I saw him. God, I really am pathetic.
“Because I felt like shit about it,” he says. “I wanted to apologize.” He gives a low chuckle. “And I couldn’t fucking stop thinking about you.”
Well, at least I wasn’t alone in that regard.
When I can’t figure out how to respond, he reaches for my hand. “I was hoping you’d let me make it up to you.”
Why does he have to seem so sincere? It’s making it hard to not be swayed by him. I feel strangely defeated when I ask, “and how do you plan to do that?”
His smile is small but devastating. It lights up his whole face. It makes me want things I can’t have. And the way my stomach swoops in reaction should tell me just how much trouble I’m in.
“I hear there’s a good vegan place nearby.”