“I’m Mia,” she says, rocking back and forth on her heels. Her pink hair’s twisted into two loose buns, and a phone in her hand that she’s definitely not pretending to scroll through. “You’re actually Maverick Hayes, or is this a joke?”
I nod once. “That’s what my license says.”
“Oh my GOD. Can I have your autograph?”
I let out a short laugh. “Yeah, sure.”
Mia gasps suddenly, then quickly runs over to the front desk, opening the drawer. “Hold on, wait right there, don’t move!”
She pops back up with a crumpled receipt and a sparkly pink gel pen. “Will you sign this? Please?”
I blink, but take the pen, smirking at her. “Anything for my fans.”
She hands me the paper with both hands, eyes wide as she bounces up and down, squealing. I scrawl my name across the blank side, and before I can even hand it back, she’s already pulling out her phone.
“Selfie. Please. I swear I’ll die.”
I give her half a smile and lean in just enough. She snaps the picture, squeals, and rushes to the back with her phone in the air, yelling.
My eyes trail back toward the back again, and Amelia hasn’t flinched. Her tattoo gun keeps buzzing like nothing outside her station exists.
There’s something about how her tattoos move as she does. They’re fluid, confident, and sexy without trying.
Her lips are slightly parted, and the crease between her brows deepens as she works.
I’ve never seen anything more dangerously beautiful in my life.
I’m stuck on this couch, trying not to think about how soft her waist felt when I held her against me or how her eyes never truly lingered on me, not even once.
And how badly I want her to really look at me.
My phone buzzes violently against my thigh.
I blink and look down at the screen.
Maggie.
Great.
“Gonna take this outside,” I mutter.
Amelia doesn’t look up. “Okay.”
I slip out the front door into the heat, let it swing shut behind me, and press the phone to my ear.
“Mags.”
“You’re not trending for once, surprising.”
“Thanks, Mags, can I have a cookie?”
“Not so fast, she says, “your lovely wife is trending.”
I stare out, watching the bumper-to-bumper traffic. “Yeah. I figured.”
“The photos from Little Tokyo spread across all outlets instantly. They’re now calling her a tattooed nightmare.”
I don’t say anything.
