I give him another smile, one that’s calm and open. “Take your time. No rush. Just talking tonight, remember. No needles. No pressure. If you’ve got ideas you want to bounce around, we can do that. Or I can just walk you through how I usually work with repeat clients. It’s up to you.”
His sharp, thoughtful eyes flick up to meet mine again. There’s definitely something ticking behind them, even when he’s giving nothing away. And I’m convinced he’s sizing me up. Not just about whether I’m good enough for the work, but whether I’m someone he can stand to sit with for hours at a time. Which, to be honest, is fair.
He doesn’t answer right away. He simply watches, still guarded, but doesn’t appear to be quite as closed off. Not anymore.
I hold his gaze without pushing, then nod once and glance down at my tablet. “You mentioned you had a few ideas. Want to tell me about them? Even broad strokes are a good start.”
His mouth twitches. Not a smile—God forbid—but something loosening. Barely. Maybe just a twitch of tolerance. But I’ll take it.
Thank fuck we’re getting somewhere, slowly and steadily.
Camden sits in silence for a beat, then finally leans forwards, resting his forearms on his thighs. His fingers tap lightly against the water bottle, like he’s weighing something up. “I want a full sleeve,” he says, voice level but low, like he’s not entirely sure if he’s allowed to want that. “Left arm.”
I nod, reaching for my sketchpad and pencil without a word. “Any particular concept?”
He shrugs one thick shoulder, then glances towards his right arm, where the existing ink peeks out. “Balance, maybe. Something that complements this side without copying it. Clean lines, nothing too busy. No colour.”
I jot notes, head tilted, keeping my expression neutral. I don’t want him shutting down again. “Theme?”
“Still figuring that out,” he admits, though the way he says it sounds more likeI have an idea, but I’m not ready to share it with a stranger.Fair enough. I’ve seen enough guarded clients to know when to push and when to let the idea breathe.
“Got it,” I say. “I’ll put together a few design directions, and you can let me know what hits and what doesn’t.”
He nods once. I can feel the weight of that tiny motion. It’s the closest I’ve gotten to trust all evening.
I glance up from my notes. “If you’re happy with what I come up with—my style, the direction—when would you want to get started?”
He doesn’t answer immediately. His jaw shifts. That hesitation returns. “End of the season,” he says eventually.
I just nod like that makes total sense. “June?”
“Mid-June, most likely.”
“I can pencil it in loosely. We’ll firm up details later.”
He gives a grunt of agreement, then looks away. Tense again. I try not to frown, but I feel the shift. Like a breeze just moved through the room.
“Tank mentioned you play rugby,” I say carefully, aiming for conversational more than interview.
The effect is instant. Camden fully tenses—shoulders, jaw, even the set of his mouth. His whole body locks up like someone flipped a switch. My eyes narrow slightly, not in challenge, just curiosity.
Who the hell hurt this guy? Or maybe it wasn’t just one person. Maybe it was a crowd.
I try again, lighter this time. “Are you thinking short sessions or just two or three long ones? I can work around your schedule either way.”
“Long ones,” he says after a second. “I have a wedding in July, so I want it done by then. Then I’m in the States for about eighteen days.”
“Nice,” I say, keeping my tone easy. Does he mean his wedding? Is he getting hitched? My gut tightens in a weird clench of disappointment. He doesn’t offer more about his travel plans—honeymoon, maybe?—and I don’t push. If he wanted to tell me why, he would’ve.
“Timing works,” I add. “I’m heading back to the States too. Just for a week—family thing. I try to head home for the Fourth of July celebrations whenever I can. Just not every year.”
Camden doesn’t respond with more than a basic up nod before he starts to stand, brushing his palms over his jeans. The chair creaks under his weight. He doesn’t meet my eyes as he reaches for the bottle, his fingers flexing like he’s preparing to leave the conversation behind with everything else.
I slide one of my cards across the counter. “Here’s my number,” I say, tone staying low and casual. “If you think of anything you want added, or you’ve got questions—or hell, even if you want to just send reference images—text me. We can chat about ideas anytime.”
He takes the card without looking at it and pockets it. He turns to leave, pauses near the door, then glances back over his shoulder. “How about…,” he says slowly, like it physically pains him, “I’ll let you know if I’m interested?” Then he’s out the door before I can respond.
The bell jingles behind him, far too cheerfully, and I blink after him, still holding my pen, still half leaning on the counter.
