Chapter 4 #2
“I…” Savannah paused, placing both hands on top of my shoulders. “I think my hands are fine right here.”
I tried to be the nice guy here. You all know it.
Shaking my head, I turned on the engine and gave her a little jump scare—only a little one, don't look at me like that.
Needless to say, it was enough to have her squealing in my ear and wrapping her arms tight around my waist. And just like that, I felt it—the tension, the heat of her pressed against me.
A grin spread across my face as I revved the throttle and took off.
This was going to be fun.
Savannah practically jumped off the bike the second we stopped. Her feet ungracefully hit the pavement, and she took five steps away from the bike like she was trying to escape its devious clutches.
“I am never,” she said, breathing unsteady, “getting on that thing again.”
She tried her best to tug on the helmet, but it wouldn't give. I did my best not to laugh, but come on, she looked ridiculous. Shaking my head, I walked over to her and pulled the helmet off her head with ease. Her hair spilled out in soft waves, slightly mussed from the ride—honestly, the best look on her so far. If I let my mind wander, it would’ve been exactly how it would look after we—
“Never again,” she repeated, glaring daggers at me.
“Come on,” I teased, lifting my own helmet. “You know you loved it.”
“I hated every second.”
“Sure you did,” I said, smirking as I set both helmets on the handlebar.
Savannah turned toward the building, and I followed her gaze as it lifted to the sign above the door—Cage Ink Studios—painted in matte black with sharp silver lettering.
She tried not to look impressed.
She failed.
“Ready?” I asked.
She smoothed her blouse, resumed her stiff posture, and nodded once. “Let’s get this over with.”
The second we stepped inside, the bass hit us—old-school dancehall drifting from the speakers, low and rhythmic.
The studio opened into a wide, industrial-chic space: exposed brick, blue-gray walls, hanging Edison bulbs, brown leather chairs, and a polished concrete floor that still smelled slightly like eucalyptus disinfectant.
Savannah’s eyes swept the room—quick, assessing. She tried to hide it, but I saw the tiny tick at the corner of her mouth.
She liked it.
Good.
Nerissa was posted at her station, shoulder-length honey brown locs piled on top of her head, digital pen tapping on her tablet as she sketched. She spotted me first and paused the music.
“About time you got here,” she called out. Then she pointed the pen at me. “You forgot about the consult, didn't you? Just because you've got a pretty face doesn't mean you can just show up whenever you want.”
I grinned and walked over. “Morning to you, too, Rissa.”
“Don’t ‘morning’ me. You should be…” Her attention shifted and then she froze, eyes widening as she realized we weren't alone. “Holy shit. You are gorgeous.”
Savannah blinked. “Oh. Uh—thank you?”
I laughed. “Savannah, Nerissa. Nerissa, Savannah.”
Nerissa stood, looking her up and down with the enthusiasm of someone inspecting a rare diamond. “Skin’s flawless. Hair’s perfect. Doesn't dress like a slut. Jax, where did you find her?”
I laughed and slid an arm around Savannah’s waist before she combusted from discomfort. “Easy, Riss. You’re scaring her.”
She ignored me completely. “I'm Nerissa, hun, and I'm the real talent around here.”
“Real pain in my ass is more like it,” I muttered.
“What was that?”
“Huh? Nothing.” I lifted my hands in surrender, a gesture which Savannah seemed all too pleased about. It didn't matter. Nerissa may have been only 5’1, but what she lacked in height, she made up for in that take-no-shit nature of hers.
Tiny devil.
“Thought so.” Nerissa grinned.
I shook my head, then nodded at her tablet. “You good for the noon appointment?”
“Yeah. He texted that he's gonna be late, but he’ll be here.”
“All good. I’m gonna take Savannah into the office. Buzz me when he gets here.”
“You got it.”
I guided Savannah down the short hall behind the front counter, into the office where I kept client files, art books, and my sketchpads stacked in messy piles.
She stepped inside and glanced around. “Nerissa seems…”
“Loud and dramatic? Yes, yes she is.”
She chuckled. “I was going to say expressive.”
“She’s one of the best people I know, but she's also a pain in the ass.”
Savannah smiled. “She seems like a good friend.”
“She is.” I went straight to the small conference-style table and pulled out a chair for her. “Let’s talk about these rules of yours.”
She ignored the gesture completely—of course she did—and walked around to the opposite side of the table, lowering herself into the seat with the kind of cool, practiced poise that should not have been as distracting as it was.
I bit back a laugh and dropped into my own chair. As I leaned forward, my forearms pressed against the table, muscles tightening under my skin. Her eyes dipped—just for a second. A flicker. A breath.
But I saw it.
She snapped her gaze back to my face so fast she practically left skid marks.
I hid my smirk behind a slow exhale.
“So,” she said, reaching into her bag and pulling out a slim leather folder. “I drew up a contract.”
I stared at the folder.
Then at her.
“You seriously drew up a contract?”
She looked at me like I just asked her to turn blue—like I was the delusional one. “Of course I did.”
A disbelieving chuckle broke through.
“Savannah—”
She opened the folder with surgical precision. “We’re establishing a temporary arrangement with public visibility and emotional manipulation implications. A written agreement ensures no misunderstandings.”
“You can't be serious. It's three weeks of fake dating.”
“Are we going to talk about the rules or are you going to continue interrupting?”
I leaned back in my chair and crossed my arms behind my head. Her eyes didn’t drop this time, but the way her jaw tightened made me know she was actively trying not to look down. A slow smile spread across my face. “I'm all ears.”
From the look on her face, I knew there was no way I could convince her that a three-week contract was insane. But the fire smoldering in her eyes—the one that flared every time I poked at her polished edges—made something dark and hungry curl in my gut.
That fire was a problem.
And it was a problem I wanted more of.