Corbin’s words whisper through my mind, unshakable.
There is more to life than Corbin Banks.
That’s my new motto, isn’t it? But what if it’s just something I tell myself tosoundlike I’m moving on? What if I’ve wrapped myself so tightly in the security blanket of Corbin—ofus—thatI’ve been keeping everyone else at arm’s length? What if I’m so afraid of being hurt again that I don’t eventry?
Losing Corbin was like losing a part of myself. And if I’m being honest, I don’t think I ever really got that part back.
But Ihaveto try. Ihaveto put myself out there. Because one day, Tate is going to pack up and leave for college, and I’m going to wake up and realize it’s just me. Me, the coffee shop, and Sarge.
That can’t be all there is.
I inhale deeply and meet my brother’s gaze. “I’ll call him,” I say, the words tasting foreign. “And I’ll plan a second date. Somewhere unfamiliar. Somewhereuncomfortable.”
Sarge grins and throws an arm around my shoulders, giving me a squeeze. “That’s the sister I know and love.”
A few customers meander in, and Sarge immediately takes his place behind the cash register. I give myself a few minutes to collect myself. To remind myself that the woman who built this coffee shop from scratch, who handpicked every plant that sits in the windows, who painted every table and chair, deserves a second chance at happiness.
I slip my phone out of the back pocket of my skinny jeans and stare at it. I could call Trey and ask him out. I left things pretty open-ended after he walked me back to the coffee shop last night. He hugged me goodbye and seemed to respect the fact that I wasn’t ready for more. Which, I appreciate.
But I owe him more than a phone call. I owe him my presence.
“Hey Sarge?” I call out to my brother as I slip out of my apron. “You got things covered while I make a quick run?”
Sarge chuffs. “Yeah, I got this.”
As I hurry out the door, I feel a surge of bravery brimming beneath my chest.
The drive to Trey’s tattoo shop is short and sweet. I park around back and take a few sharp breaths before opening the car door and strolling around to the front. The shop is small and distinct. Brick exterior, black metal fixtures, the wordTattooemblazoned in bold script with an intricate design curling around the letters like ivy.
I ignore my nerves and push open the glass door. The air inside is cooler than I expected, carrying the sharp, sterile scent of antiseptic mixed with something earthy—leather, maybe. The faint hum of a tattoo machine fills the space, punctuated by low voices and the occasional scrape of a chair against the tiled floor. Artwork covers every available inch of the walls—bold, black linework of roses and skulls, delicate butterflies in fine detail, dramatic ships sailing through stormy waves, intricate angel wings, and hauntingly realistic portraits. There’s so much to take in that I almost miss the voice calling my name.
“Well, if it isn’t Jules Banks.”
I turn to see Trey standing a few feet away, a smirk playing on his lips. He’s wearing a black T-shirt, his tawny arms on full display, the ink running down his forearms blending into his tan skin like it’s always belonged there. He wipes his hands on a towel before tossing it onto a nearby counter.
“What brings you to this side of town?” he asks.
Feeling slightly braver than usual, I grin. “I came to see if you’d like to go on that second date.”
“Oh, really.” He arches a dark brow, looking genuinely surprised. “An in-person invite? That’s a first for me.”
“I’m trying to be bolder,” I admit. “So, what do you say?”
“I say yes,” he replies without hesitation.
“Great.” I nod, somewhat awkwardly. “I, um, think we deserve one after, you know, what happened last night.”
“They’re your people, Jules.” Trey’s voice is easy, free of judgment. “It’s okay with me if we run into them and still manage to have a good time.”
I lick my lips. “Thank you.”
He tilts his head, watching me for a second before his eyes flick toward the wall behind me. “You want to stay and get a tattoo?”
“Uh…” I trail off, glancing at the sketchbook on the counter before looking toward the framed artwork lining the wall.
“Come on,” he says, leading me toward a display of smaller, more delicate designs framed near the register. “It’ll be on the house.”
I let my gaze roam over the designs. Tiny celestial symbols, minimalistic flowers, a small mountain range, an open book with wisps of smoke curling from its pages, as if the story itself was coming to life. But it’s a tiny, simple paintbrush tucked in the corner of the frame that makes me pause.
