Chapter 1
CHAPTER ONE
Emily
OK, Emily, deep breaths, I tell myself firmly.
The ‘Receptionist Wanted’ sign in the window of this tattoo parlour is heaven sent.
I moved to Foxton-on-Sea two days ago, and I need employment.
I have extensive experience of reception work from my years as a temp, so this is a no brainer, and it doesn’t matter how scared of needles I am.
When the most perfect and arse-saving opportunity presents itself to you during a grocery run, you put your big girl pants on, go for it, and hope for the best.
What would Janeway do, I think to ground myself as I tentatively push the door open.
I’ve been watching my beloved Star Trek again now that I’m allowed to watch whatever I want, having it on in the background while I unpack and settle in, and it’s been like having an old friend hanging out and keeping me company after years apart.
Janeway is my favourite captain, and I recall with a small smile her saying that first contact must always be a positive thing.
I’m by no means cool enough to be employed in a place like this, but I’m a hard worker, and that counts, I tell myself. It DOES.
I check out my surroundings while I tighten my ponytail.
The reception is stylish, with pale gold walls, healthy green plants in beautifully painted pots, and an elegant black iron spiral staircase towards the back corner of the room.
The words ‘Wishbone Tattoos’ are spread across the front window in artful black lettering, with ‘Est 2009’ underneath.
There’s a squashy, beaten-up leather sofa begging to be sat on, and an oak coffee table scattered with magazines and hardback tattoo art books.
It needs a bit of a tidy, but this place isn't intimidating like I assumed.
Instead, it feels immediately welcoming and comfortable, more than I would have expected to find in a tattoo parlour.
There are a selection of framed photos on the walls, depicting what must be examples of tattoos they’ve done here in the past: a skull in a top hat with red and purple flowers bursting all over the brim on someone’s calf, the surrounding skin pink and puffy; a woman’s bare back tattooed with angel wings, the feathers so finely detailed and realistic that they look like a photo instead of a drawing; a replica of a still from Yellow Submarine on someone’s arm, instantly recognizable and flawlessly rendered; passages from a Lord Byron poem in varying sizes, layered in perfect black and red antique handwriting script.
I’m blown away by the level of talent involved in each of them. It’s genuinely astonishing.
There’s a low thrum of Disturbed on the sound system.
It’s Deify, one of my favourite tracks. I smile to myself; perhaps it’s a sign that I could belong here, after all.
Beneath David Draiman’s toe curlingly sexy vocals, I can hear the faint buzz of a.
.. I don’t know what it’s called; a tattoo gun, maybe?
Like a piercing gun? It’s coming from beyond the doorway to the right of the reception desk.
My spine shivers involuntarily. I am a card carrying needlephobe, so as much as I would love to have a tattoo (and I know exactly what I’d get), I’m too much of a wimp to go through with it.
Bottom line, though: this place is hiring, and I need a job like yesterday so I don’t have to keep dipping into my secret savings to make rent.
This job is perfect: walking distance from my new home, and I have the skills and experience for it.
I tamp down the anxiety as best I can, unwilling to let it persuade me to run back out the door. I can do this.
Just as long as I don’t get squeamish about the needles. No panicking, Em. For once in your life, do NOT make a fool of yourself.
I’m not sure how long to wait. I straighten my clothing, painfully aware that my old holey jeans, Converse sneakers, and plaid shirt I threw on just to nip to the shops don’t exactly scream ‘hire this professional powerhouse’; but then again, what is the best thing to wear for an interview at a tattoo parlour?
A business suit? I wouldn’t have thought so.
I notice a button marked ‘Press For Attention ;-)’ on the reception desk by the laptop, and nervously press it.
A buzzing bell sounds through the doorway to my left as I face the desk.
“Coming,” a deep, masculine voice calls out.
I take a steadying breath, telling myself not to be intimidated, and within seconds one of the best looking men I have ever seen in my life emerges from the back rooms.
Wow.
He’s a great big bear of a man, or wait, no, he’s actually more of a lion.
Easily six foot three or four, broad shoulders, muscular arms covered in a multitude of tattoos and leather wrist cuffs and bracelets, and a golden brown mane of hair with blond-ish ends as though dyed by the sun, curling down to just past his shoulders.
He has an easy, piratical smile framed by a very sexy beard, and a scar cuts through his left eyebrow.
The imperfection only serves to emphasise how gorgeous this man is, and I blink in surprise.
He looks me up and down in friendly assessment. “Hi, can I help you?” he asks in a deep, Bagheera-like voice with a pleasant smile.
“U-um,” I stammer, swallowing hard and clearing my throat. Good start. “Hi, I’m here about the, uh, the receptionist job? I hope you don’t mind, I...was just passing, and...I’m sure the position has already gone, don’t worry if - ”
Fortunately, he cuts in to stop me from rambling any more.
“Fan fucking tastic,” he crows, stepping forward and holding out a hand for me to shake.
His grip is firm, warm, and dry, and very steadying.
“Leo Mills. I’m the owner, and I’m really bloody glad you walked in.
” In spite of the 'bloody', there’s the faintest American twang to his voice, like maybe he’s lived in the States at some point.
Ha. Leo. Of course this gorgeous, leonine man is called Leo. “Emily.” I hope my handshake conveyed more professionalism than my waffling did.
“Nice to meet you, Emily.” He’s so cheerful. To my great surprise, I find myself relaxing slightly. It feels so strange to not be intimidated by a man, especially one I’ve literally just met. “So, have you done any reception work before?”
“Yes,” I reply, putting my game face on, “I was a temp for years, so I’ve had loads of receptionist positions. I just moved here a couple of days ago, but before I left, I was a PA at a legal firm, and I covered reception every lunchtime - ”
“Good enough for me. You’re hired.”
I stop in surprise, and he chuckles, a rich, rumbling sound.
“Wow,” I manage, and join him in laughter. “That was...quick? Are you sure?” Not that I want to discourage him, but how was it that simple?
He shrugs and leans against the doorframe, not breaking eye contact with me. “We need a receptionist like there’s no freakin’ tomorrow. You’ve got experience. I can’t think of anything more straightforward than that.”
He has a point there. There’s bound to be a catch or two, but I’m just going to enjoy this time before I find out what they are.
“Thank you,” I say sincerely, trying not to sound like I’m pathetically grateful.
This saves me having to sign up with employment agencies and pace in front of the phone every morning hoping for an assignment.
I really didn’t want to have to temp again.
This job will hopefully get me settled into my new home town, at least.
“No problem,” he says, “but before we go any further, I should give you a rundown of duties to make sure you’re happy with it all?
” He lifts his scarred eyebrow in enquiry, and I nod eagerly.
I doubt he’s going to suggest anything I wouldn’t want to do, and fortunately reception work is much the same wherever you go.
“Pay is twenty thousand a year. Working hours are 10am until 6pm Tuesday to Saturday, with the occasional Sunday paid at time and a half and with plenty of notice given. And yes, there is a staff discount for tattoos,” he says with a wink.
I can feel myself starting to blush. “Oh, I, um...I don’t have any,” I admit apologetically. Maybe it’s kind of a requirement. If customers come in and can see examples of their work on their staff, that’s just good advertising. Maybe this is a bad idea… I start to slump inwardly.
He shrugs like it’s no big deal. “We’ll see how long that lasts,” he says knowingly, “but there’s absolutely no obligation.
” His eyes, which are a rather lovely golden hazel, turn kind, as if he knows how insecure I’m feeling and wants me to feel better.
It sounds absurd, but it’s as though he’s known me all my life.
I think he’d probably make anyone feel that way.
It’s that brotherly kind of energy, or maybe it’s simply that he has bucketloads of natural charisma.
But either way, I can’t help warming to him.
“Anyway, day to day duties are…” he lists them on his fingers, “meeting and greeting the clients, making them feel comfortable, talking to them if they seem nervous - oh, are you first aid trained?” I nod, and he grins.
“Even better - we get the occasional fainter. So yeah, meet and greet, book the appointments,” he continues, resuming the counting, “Look after our social media - it’s just Facebook and Instagram at the moment, but we get a lot of enquiries on them - keeping the place tidy, making sure the coffee machine is running constantly for Sadie, ordering supplies and taking deliveries, and just keeping us all running smoothly, really.
” One side of his mouth quirks up. “Sound good?”
“Sure, sounds great.” Twenty thousand a year is almost as much as I was earning at the legal firm back home. As long as I’m careful, it will easily cover rent and living expenses. I’m never this lucky usually.