She grins. “Will do!”
I turn on my heel and walk out the door. The clouds hang low over the Bridger Range, and the snowy peaks stay hidden behind the late winter haze. A glimpse at my watch tells me we’ve got a few hours before we need to catch our flight home, which is good because I’m hungry and hoping we can grab a bite before we head to the airport.
White exhaust puffs from the tailpipe of the rental car that’s idling on the curb outside the courthouse. Casper sits in thedriver’s seat, texting on his phone. Opening the door, I slip into the heated passenger seat. “Let’s get some food,” I say.
“All good?” he asks, not lifting his eyes from the screen. “Got it.”
He nods, then tucks the phone in his jacket and shifts the car into gear before we pull away from the curb.
“Are you staying late?” With hands planted on her hips, she leans back and stretches, cracking her spine after a full day of work. Seven o’clock, closing time. The setting sun shines through the two big picture windows on either side of the front door, casting a warm glow inside the shop. She chuckles. “What am I saying, of course you are.”
I grin and return to the shop’s overflowing inbox asking when our artists’ books are reopening and if they would make any exceptions. I’m willing to take commissions on the days we’re closed if the client is willing to pay one and a half times my normal rate.
“I was thinking of ordering some food . . . Wanna get in on that?” she asks.
When I glance up, she’s got her elbows planted on the front desk, hands propping up her chin. She bats her lashes, showing off her bright-green eyes, and tosses me a hopeful smile.
The corner of my mouth turns up, and I sigh. “Yeah. I suppose,” I grumble, typing out replies to hopeful client emails at the front desk. I could be doing this from my office, but she just finished up with her last client of the day, so I was covering the desk until we closed at seven o’clock p.m.
These days I only tattoo four days a week, but still, I find myself here almost seven to make sure things are running smoothly. I inherited the shop almost five years ago and still haven’t mastered the work-life balance. Not sure I ever will. Maybe someday I’ll hire a shop manager, but it would have to be someone worthy, and I doubt I’ll ever trust anyone enough to give them control of the reins. This is too important, and I can’t risk it ending up in the wrong hands again.
This isn’t just any tattoo shop, it’s Clyde Everhart’s studio, Black Rabbit—and the woman standing in front of me is his one and only descendant, Kelly.
She rounds the desk and looks over my shoulder. “Hey, are you going through emails? That’s my job, get outta here.” She shoos me away and slips into the chair I was sitting in.
Kelly is still wrapping up her apprenticeship, so she previously managed our inbox as one of her duties, but technically, Francesca—Frankie—handles the front desk on the days we’re open, Tuesday through Saturday. I hired her about eight months ago to answer phones and schedule appointments. She is great at keeping us organized. However, her work days usually end around six o’clock, so anything important outside those hours is done by me or Kelly.
“But first, I’m putting in a dinner order,” she announces, pulling out her phone.
“Expense it,” I tell her.
She spins in the chair to beam at me and says, “Don’t worry, I am,” then rotates away from me.
I hover behind her as she scrolls through restaurants listed on one of those food delivery apps.
A text notification pops up at the top of her screen.
Jason
Hey beautiful. How was your day?
She squeals.
This fuckin’ guy.
“I love that he texts me to ask how my day was,” she says, opening the text thread and tapping out a response.
“Yeah, Chaos, his chivalry is really breaking new ground,” I grumble. She doesn’t even hear me.
I can’t watch this shit, so I step away and cut open the boxes from our earlier delivery. This woman occupies way too much real estate in my brain, especially considering she has a new boyfriend—the man is a complete waste of her time. He doesn’t know how to handle a woman like Kelly Everhart.
Kelly is five feet, two inches of pure edgy adorableness, with her black hair, black nails, tattooed arms, and nipple piercings that occasionally poke through her shirt just to torture me. Not to mention those thick thighs and hips that I’m dying to sink my teeth into.Jason, you lucky son of a bitch.
She’s kind and sweet, always making sure everyone she comes in contact with feels appreciated and welcome. Though if it were up to me, her gorgeous smiles would be exclusively mine.
Jason is the most milquetoast motherfucker I’ve had the displeasure of meeting. Unfortunately, she’s been with so many clowns over the years, this guy’s stock features—like asking about her day—have somehow been twisted into grand romantic gestures. I have no idea why she puts up with him. He’s a cold sore personified, annoying, and hopefully just as temporary.
She giggles, smiling at her phone screen, and I roll my eyes, pulling out the boxes of blue shop towels from the shipment.
