The corner of his lip draws up higher as if by a string. “Tattooed women wearing spiked combat boots andHome Alonesweatshirts usually do. Especially beautiful ones.”
My brows lift. “Wow,” I say, jaw clenched to keep from snorting.
He steps past the threshold, head hanging when he laughs. “Too much?”
“Specific.”
I hate how adorable the look in his eyes is right now. His inked neck visibly bobs when our eyes meet again. I’m forced to clear my throat as a heat rises up my chest. It’s hard not to stare. He looks like the embodiment of winter. Pale skin, frosted eyes, black hair. Like he was born in a snowstorm and had to melt the ice around him to break free. He doesn’t look like he belongs in a beach town. I would expect to see him walking alone down a dark city street in the dead of winter, outside a gothic church, or modeling the latest cold, piney fragrance in a magazine ad.
What exactly he’s doing here is beyond me.
“It’s Juniper,” I eventually tell him. “My name.”
“Juniper…”
I try not to let my eyes flutter with the way he says it.
“I like that,” he decides.
“I’m glad you approve.”
Nick chuckles, and as he does, his hair falls into his soft eyes again.
Focus.
“So… Um… what are you doing in my bar, Nick? I doubt the Christmas Santa at the end of the steps intrigued you that much,” I decide to say.
A scoff leaves him as he looks around. “I came looking for Dani. Is she around?”
Nick.
Nick.
Oh, wait.Nick.
“You’re the artist,” I realize.
How the hell did Marge not mention how hot he is when she was working last week on the day he painted the mural?
His smile widens as he reaches the barstools. “So you do know me.”
“Didn’t she just text you like five minutes ago?” I ask.
“Five. Three.” He shrugs. “I was on the beach. Easy commute.”
Nick’s brows knit together when he strokes a finger on the statue of North’s horns. “That’s… an interesting likeness. Not many of the displays in town have the horns.”
“Or the forked tongue,” I say with a nod to the other one.
Nick’s eyes darken when he looks at the sculpture of Blaze. His mouth quirks higher, and a deep, hoarse laugh radiates from him. “This definitely doesn’t make the kid-friendly cut.”
“Not at all. But they’re a Hudson family tradition. We bring them out of storage every year around this time, especially for the festival.”
“Is Hudson your family?” Nick asks.
“Jasmine’s. Her grandparents owned this place. She bought it from them about a decade ago,” I explain. “Speaking of…” I grab my phone out of my pocket and send a text to the group chat.
So… None of you were going to mention how hot the artist guy is? We were just letting me walk into that trap?
