Wicked cute, this one.
A tangle of brown curls held back from a slightly tanned forehead with a touch of gel. A nice tight shave up the back of his neck. But I stop giving him the once-over and unlock The Body Shop.
Once I return the jangle of keys on my glittery lanyard back to the bottomless pit of my purse, I twist the tablet on the front counter, punch in the security code, and turn up the lights.
“Wow,” the guy says, following me in. He scans the cool-gray wallpaper with subtle gold-foil roses, the mid-century-style oak furniture, and the pops of green from a few thriving potted plants. “This is not what I expected of a tattoo shop.”
My words come out along with a ferocious glare before I can stop them. “What did you expect? Sweat-stained couches and cracked poster frames with sheets of generic flash? We don’t cater to frat boys here.” Before he can answer, I give him a look and hold up a finger. “I need to check something. You can set those on the counter.”
I walk through a bifold door, planning to secure my purse at my station, when I feel a slosh of water under my boot.
“Fuck. No,” I groan. Ahead of me, the floor surrounding the six tattoo stations is flooded. Water at least an inch deep in spots pools around the bays. The floor back here is easy-to-clean strip flooring in a natural honey shade that complements the classic and calming decor. And it’s freaking soaked.
My curses echo through the store, and in a heartbeat, I hear the guy from up front push open the bifold door.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
I throw him a dirty look. He’s still holding the cups of coffee, but now his sneakers are soaking up who knows what this is.
He looks down at his feet, then back at me, then looks at the cups in his hands.
“Get back,” I tell him, careful not to slip as I step through the water. I wave at him to go back up front.
Thankfully, the lobby floor is still dry.
My customer’s expensive-looking sneakers squeak as he sets the coffees on the counter. “Do you know where the water shutoff is? I might be able to help.”
But I’m too busy digging in my purse for my cell phone to think straight. “I’m calling the building owner,” I tell him, panic edging my voice.
“Can I look?” he asks, nodding toward the back room.
I shrug as I pull up the contact for the management company.
The second the voice mail picks up, I start hollering about water flooding the store. I drop as many colorful adjectives and curse words as I possibly can before hanging up.
I dig through my purse for the keys and lock the front door so no one else can walk in on this mess.
When I head into the back room, Mr. Rugby is on his hands and knees. He has taken a pair of black nitrile gloves from someone’s station. He’s wearing them on his hands as he blots up the water from the floor with a stack of our black shop towels.
“Oh my God,” I gasp. “What are you doing?”
He’s looking calm, cool, and very confident for a guy who’s probably soaked to his ankles in sewage.
He gives me the thumbs-up with a very wet black glove and does this half-push-up, half-lunge-like move to get from his knees to his feet.
“Shit,” he grumbles, and I hear his knee audibly pop as he stands. “Should’ve taken that a little slower.”
“You shouldn’t have done any of this,” I wave my hand at his cleanup efforts, “at all. You could get sick from crawling around in dirty water.”
I’m starting to straight-up panic. Our equipment is sterile. Our workplace meticulously cleaned. We book tattoos by appointment only, and we have more than sufficient time to keep The Body Shop to the highest standards.
Now, the whole place has had a shit wash and has to be sanitized.
I crumple down into the chair at my station, the bottom of my boots submerged in the water. “Holy fuck,” I gasp. The reality of the situation is fully hitting me now.
“The news isn’t that bad,” my knight in shining nitrile gloves says.
He bounces on his squeaky shoes, all smiles and reassurances. He’s got the energy of a golden retriever and the deep brown eyes of a heartthrob.
