Total pages in book: 28
Estimated words: 26056 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 130(@200wpm)___ 104(@250wpm)___ 87(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 26056 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 130(@200wpm)___ 104(@250wpm)___ 87(@300wpm)
It can’t be her. Can it?
I guess I’m about to find out.
I exhale slowly and my breath fogs in the freezing air.
“Okay,” I say with certainty in my voice. “I’m ready. Let’s go home.”
CHAPTER THREE
Victoria
It’s been over a week since we last heard from Magnus. I’ve been worried sick.
But along with the worry, I’ve been feeling all sorts of other emotions. Knowing that Adrian Cross may or may not be showing up in my shop at any moment to stay here and work here only a few feet from me is stirring up all kinds of anxious excitement in my belly.
For the first few days after talking to Magnus, I must have looked at the door every thirty seconds hoping to see Adrian’s tall broad frame walking through the door. But now, on the other side of a week and no Adrian, I’m beginning to think that the whole thing was a fever dream of Magnus’ unhinged bear.
I mean, why would he come back after all this time? Does he even still tattoo? It just doesn’t make sense.
He’s not coming, I tell myself as I finish up the sketch for my next appointment. It’s just not in the cards, girl. He was a childhood crush and that’s it. Get over it. It’s getting kind of pathetic.
“What do you think of this?” I ask as I hold the sketch up to the light. It’s one of those old-timey ship anchors.
Julian walks over to scrutinize it. His eyes narrow and his forehead furrows as he goes over every line with careful precision. “Need more shading here,” he says, pointing to the thick rope.
It always hurts to hear someone criticize your art, but we’re still brutally honest with one another anyway. I’ve trashed some of his best pieces to his face and he’s nit-picked and blasted some of mine. When you’re in the business of permanently etching your drawings onto people’s skin, you can’t let hurt feelings get in the way. We have to be ruthless. Our hurt feelings will heal, but fucked up tattoos stay on skin forever.
“This knot needs to be thicker,” he says, pointing to the rope swirling around the anchor.
Damn it. He’s right. I hate that.
I must be distracted.
He hands back the sketch and I start shading as he lingers around his station getting ready for when we open.
“Did Magnus say when Adrian is coming?” he asks as he takes the last sip of his coffee.
“He’s not coming,” I say as I scratch my pencil back and forth along the rope.
“You talked to him? Or to Magnus?” Julian asks, perking up.
“No, just a gut feeling.”
The door opens even though the sign is still flipped to Closed. My heart skips a beat as I whip my head up, hoping to see a tall sexy polar bear shifter strutting through the door.
My shoulders drop and my stomach plunges when I see Curt instead.
He’s my most loyal customer, and my most annoying. He’s a male stripper who has the hots for me and loves that he can take his shirt off in my chair.
“Hi Curt,” I say, trying to keep my voice chipper but failing miserably.
He struts in with an amused grin on his face, like he’s offering us all a gift by being so generous to anoint us with his presence.
“We’re not open,” Julian grunts. “The sign is there. Can you read?”
“You don’t need to read when you have abs like this,” Curt says as he pulls off his shirt in dramatic fashion.
Julian rolls his eyes and then heads into the back to start a new sketch.
“Your anchor is ready,” I say, showing him the tattoo.
He frames the spot on his side with his index fingers and thumbs. “I don’t know,” he says, putting on his regular routine. “This spot on my body is already a work of art. It’s kind of a shame to draw over it.”
He does this every time. Today, I’m not in the mood.
“Fine, we’ll cancel,” I say as I turn back to the reception desk.
“No, no,” he says as he hops into my chair with his hands behind his head. “I still want it.”
I place the stencil on his skin and get my needles and ink all set up. He hits on me the entire time.
“Most male strippers have to move through the crowd,” he says as I slip on a new pair of black latex gloves. “Because the women in the back row can’t see. But with me, I can stay on stage all I want, if you catch my drift. The women have no problems seeing me.”
“Because there’s hardly anyone in the audience when you strip?”
“What?! No!”
I try to hide my grin as I get him all worked up.
I don’t know why he keeps thinking I’m impressed with his muscles or body or profession. I couldn’t care less.