“Yeah, exactly, and now I have a tattoo, he will most definitely stay an ex.”
His expression falters slightly. “He’s still on the scene?”
I realise what I’ve said. “Not like that. He’s one of these guys who doesn’t want me, but doesn’t want to let go either. He just likes to pop up now and then when I’m least expecting it.”
Kane’s handsome face creases in a scowl. “Sounds like a dick.”
I laugh. “Yeah, he is. Anyway, I don’t want to talk about him.” I’ve taken a few more sips of my wine and am starting to relax. I remember the American back at the studio, and how I promised myself I would ask. “How about you? Any exes or girlfriends on the scene?”
“Nope.” He holds my gaze. “I’m all yours.”
My stomach flips, my cheeks heating. “Nothing between you and the pretty American then?”
He frowns at me, as though he doesn’t know who I’m referring to, and then bursts out with laughter. “Oh, fuck, no. That’s Tess. She’s the boss’s girlfriend. They live together upstairs.”
I allow myself to exhale. The moment has left me flustered, and I give a small laugh that doesn’t sound like my own. “Oh, right. Of course.”
He leans in towards me, his brilliant green eyes narrowed slightly. “Did you think there was something going on between me and Tess?”
Heat rushes to my face. That’s exactly what I thought. I flap a hand in the air to try to hide my embarrassment. “It was nothing. I just thought I saw something pass between you.”
He tips back his head and laughs again, revealing straight white teeth. “She was trying to get me to ask you out.”
My mouth drops open. “What?”
“Yeah, she saw how I’d been looking at you when you first came in, and told me I needed to ask you out. That moment you picked up on was her trying to push me into it.”
Only one line sticks in my head. “How you’d been looking at me?”
He leans in again, and his gaze flicks down my body, and something inside me sparks. “Yeah, like I wanted to see more of you than just your hip.”
My breath catches. I’m not used to men being openly flirty with me. Mike had always been very British—reserved and even formal—during intimate moments. He never would have told me that he wanted to see me naked or tell me the things he’d want to do with me. My lack of experience flusters me, and the only way I know how to handle it is to change the topic.
“So ... how did you end up as a tattoo artist?”
The question sounds too formal, awkward, and I want to kick myself. I wish I was one of those naturally flirty people, butit’s been too long and I’ve forgotten how. I’m not sure how to process what’s happening. Is this going to end the way I think he might want it to end, with me sleeping with him? The thought of getting naked in front of this sexy guy paralyses me with fear. What if he expects more than what’s actually underneath my clothes? I’m far from perfect. What if he’s disappointed?
No, no, no. My brain is trying to push anxiety onto me. I’m just having a drink with a gorgeous guy. It’s not something I need to flip out over.
I realise he’s said something and missed it. “Sorry?”
“I said that I was lucky to get the job. The guy who owns the studio, Art, took a chance on me. I owe him one.”
“You’re a fantastic artist. I’m sure he took you on because of that.”
Kane shrugs and moves his bottle of beer around on the table, not looking at me, leaving a wet trail on the wood from the condensation. “I was a bit of a troublemaker when I was a kid. Got myself into some sticky situations. Other employers might have turned me away because of that, but Art took me on. We’ve been working together ever since.”
I wonder what sort of stuff he got into trouble with. Is it just the usual underage drinking, or had it been worse than that? Had he done time in jail? I don’t like to ask, not yet, anyway. We’re only just getting to know each other, and we all have a past. He seems like a good guy now—the kind of guy who would travel halfway across the city to return a lost phone.
We’ve finished our drinks, and Kane gets up to get another round.
“I’ll get these,” I insist, but he won’t let me stand, his hand pressing on my shoulder, keeping me in my seat.
“No, I’m buying. I already told you that. Now stop fighting with me.” He throws me a wink before vanishing back inside the bar, and my stomach flips with happy nerves.
I’m feeling nicely relaxed from the wine, and a little bubble of happiness and excitement balloons inside me. I never do this kind of thing. I can’t just blame the tattoo; after all, it had been this extra bit of courage inside me that had made me get the tattoo in the first place. I spent so long living for other people that I almost forgot what it’s like to live for myself.
8
