Chapter Ten
Rome
I bought the house when I was twenty-four. Everybody told me not to.
The roof leaked in two places, the kitchen looked like it hadn’t been updated since the eighties, and half the wallpaper had been stripped off by someone who apparently got bored halfway through the job. The realtor had called it a fixer-upper.
I called it cheap. That had been five years ago.
Now, sitting in my kitchen with a mug of coffee in one hand and the morning sun streaming through the windows, I thought it had turned out pretty damn good.
The house was an old Victorian on the edge of town with a wraparound porch, dark green shutters, and more character than common sense.
The hardwood floors creaked if you stepped in the wrong spots.
The staircase curved toward the second floor like something out of an old movie, and the stained-glass window above the landing cast colored light across the foyer every afternoon.
Most people expected me to live in some industrial loft.
Black walls. Metal furniture. A motorcycle parked in the living room.
I didn’t.
The outside of the house looked like it belonged to an elderly woman who baked pies and kept bird feeders.
The inside looked more like me.
Dark leather couch. Wood shelves. Framed tattoo designs. Black kitchen cabinets I’d installed myself after ripping out the old oak ones.
The place wasn’t fancy, but it was mine.
I took another drink of coffee and stared out the kitchen window at the backyard.
The maple tree was starting to change colors. Leaves littered the grass beneath it, and I made a mental note that I should probably rake this weekend.
Probably. I wasn’t going to.
The kitchen was quiet except for the ticking clock over the stove, but my brain wouldn’t shut the hell up about Josie.
I scowled into my coffee.
That woman had somehow managed to invade my thoughts in less than two weeks, which was irritating.
Not because I didn’t like her.
I did.
I liked crossing Main Street and seeing her smile when I walked in.
I liked arguing with her.
I liked that she gave me shit and didn’t seem remotely intimidated by me.
I liked the way she’d looked at her tattoo when I finished. Like I’d given her something she’d wanted for years.
I especially liked the kiss.
I scrubbed a hand over my jaw.
The kiss had been... Different.
Not explosive.
Not one of those moments where the world stopped spinning and fireworks shot out of your ass.
I would’ve hated that.
No.
It had been quiet. Slow. Tentative.
Josie had looked at me like she wasn’t sure if she was allowed to want something.
That pissed me off at whoever taught her that.
Her ex. Bruce.
Just thinking about him annoyed me.
I didn’t know the guy and didn’t want to.
But every now and then Josie let little things slip. How he talked her out of opening the shop. How he hated tattoos. How she spent years waiting for the right time to do things.
The right time. Bullshit.
Life was too damn short to wait around for permission.
I looked down at my calloused and tattooed hands. A scar on my right thumb from when I was nineteen and thought a circular saw was less dangerous than it actually was.
Everything I had, I built.
The shop. The house. My life.
Nobody gave me a damn thing, and maybe that’s why Josie got under my skin because she was building something too after somebody had spent years convincing her she couldn’t.
I took another sip of coffee.
The kiss.
Jesus.
That woman kissed exactly like she lived.
Carefully.
Like she wanted something but wasn’t convinced she deserved it.
And I... I had wanted to tell her she did.
I wasn’t anybody’s savior and didn’t want to be.
Josie didn’t need saving anyway.
She’d divorced the asshole. Opened her shop. Built a life. The woman was stronger than she gave herself credit for.
I wasn’t about to screw that up by turning into some possessive idiot because we kissed once.
All morning I kept remembering little things. The feel of her wrist in my hand and the way she’d looked at me when I asked if she trusted me. The soft sound she’d made against my mouth.
I set my coffee down harder than necessary. “Jesus Christ.”
The empty kitchen offered no opinions which was probably for the best.
I stood and carried my mug to the sink. I glanced at the clock.
Seven thirty and I didn’t have to be at Bad Habit until ten. Usually I’d spend the extra time sketching designs or doing paperwork. Today my thoughts drifted across Main Street again.
I wondered if Josie was awake. If she’d looked at her tattoo ten times already. If she’d regretted kissing me.
That last thought sat badly in my chest.
Because, hell, I didn’t regret it.
My phone buzzed on the kitchen table. Saved by the damn bell from going down the rabbit hole of figuring out just what the hell was going on with Josie and me.
I walked over and picked it up.
The screen lit up. Prez
The Slayers MC president had been in my phone as Prez for years. His real name was Marcus, but nobody called him that unless they wanted to get punched.
The text was short. Party Saturday. Better show your ugly face.
I huffed out a laugh. Typical.
I typed back. Thought you were trying to keep attendance down.
The response came immediately. Funny. You coming?
I looked down at the phone.
Normally? Maybe.
The club parties were good. They had beer, music, pool tables, and bonfires. Nobody gave a shit if you danced or sat in the corner all night.
I liked the guys, and I normally liked the women.
But now Josie…
I stared at the phone, then immediately shook my head. Bad idea.
Way too soon.
I typed anyway. Can I bring someone?
Three dots appeared instantly. Then disappeared. Then appeared again. What the fuck?
I smirked. That a yes?
Who are you and what have you done with Rome? You never bring people.
Fair enough.I normally didn’t.
I leaned against the counter and looked at the stained-glass window by the staircase, which threw patches of blue and red across the hardwood floor.
I looked at the phone again.
I typed. Can I or not?
The reply came. Yeah. Then another. I know her?
I barked out a laugh. Mind your business.
Holy shit. Chick must be legit. Another text. I’m telling everyone.
Do that and I’ll tattoo a dick on your forehead while you sleep.
Worth it. He replied.
I shook my head and tossed the phone onto the table.
Idiots, every last one of them.
Josie at the clubhouse. I pictured it and I had to admit I liked it. The guys would like her instantly because everyone liked Josie.
I stared at my phone. This was ridiculous.
I was twenty-nine and somehow asking a woman to a party felt more intimidating than opening a tattoo shop at twenty-one.
Pathetic.
I picked up the phone, opened my messages, and scrolled to Josie.
Stared.
Typed.
Deleted.
Typed again.
Want to go to a club party Saturday?
Deleted.
Too vague.
Want to come with me to a party Saturday?
Deleted.
Too date-y.
Jesus.
I threw the phone on the table.
Picked it back up.
Typed.
Club party Saturday. Pause. Want to come with me?
Simple. No pressure. Just a question.
I read it three times and then hit send before I could overthink it. The message disappeared, and a tiny Delivered appeared underneath. I stared at the phone, waiting, like an idiot.