“You’ve got a great piece planned. Forget the other artists, forget the judges, you’re competing against yourself.”
She blots away the ink. “I love that you think I’m less critical when I compete against myself. That’s when I question everything. Should I add more contrast? Can my lines be tighter? Are my shadows where they need to be?”
“Every artist sees flaws in their work, but you gotta remember that it’s art. Art doesn’t have rules, it’s a lawless, subjective beast. You have good instincts, trust your gut. You’re going to kill it.”
She chuckles, taking more ink into her needle. “You’re biased.” She presses it to my upper arm, continuing along the lines she’s stenciled.
“Perhaps . . . I also know talent when I see it.”
She’s too busy concentrating on a particularly long line that she has to whip in and out of to reply. As soon as she completes it, I open my mouth to tell her she did an excellent job in the places she had to pick up and stop.
“Speaking of Bozeman, who is watching Odie?” That’s become her newest nickname for him.
“Jordan is taking him. He was introduced to Chicken Salad yesterday, and they’re already thick as thieves.”
“I hate that we’re leaving him so soon,” she says.
“We, huh?”
She shakes her head. “You know what I mean. You just adopted him. What if he thinks he’s getting abandoned again?”
That’s why I’m not boarding him. The last thing I want to do is put him in another kennel after he just got busted out. “Already ahead of you. Jordan is house-sitting so he doesn’t have to leave his familiar home. It works out since Camden is in Canada this weekend for the playoffs anyway.”
Her shoulders seem to relax with that news. “Look at you already being a good daddy.”
I cock an eyebrow at the suggestive title and she blushes. “Too bad he can’t be a shop dog.”
“He’s happier taking a nap on the couch and barking at squirrels across the street at home than he would be waiting around on this cold tile floor or in my cramped office.”
I once did a guest spot at a tattoo shop that allowed artists to bring their dogs to work, and I’ll never do it again. The floors were filthy, twice a dog hair floated into one of my ink caps, and I had to start all over again with a clean setup. Outside of having a service animal, it’s a major health hazard for everyone involved.
The first hour passes quickly, which mostly consists of her peppering me with questions regarding Odin and how he and I are adjusting to our new cohabitation. I can’t deny it, there’s something fantastic about coming home to a happy dog at the end of the day. He’s very chill. It’s an ideal arrangement.
I smile, savoring the feel of her touch as she works.
“Sooo . . .” she says. “Are we going to talk about that kiss?”
My chin drops and I smile. “Sure.”
“I’m just making sure it wasn’t a heat-of-the-moment thing or?—”
“It wasn’t,” I answer, cutting her off.
The only sound between us is the buzz of her machine.
“How do you feel?” I ask.
“I’m a little nervous. I think we should start slow. I’m recently out of a relationship, I just want to make sure I’m not jumping into something too soon. Especially with you.”
I examine her cautious expression. “Do you trust me?”
“Of course,” she says, pulling a thicker line with her new needle.
“Good. Look, I’m not going to lie to you, if the kind of slow you’re talking about is rooted in hesitancy, then I’m not interested. I want you all in.”
She scoffs. “I’m not allowed to be nervous?”
“You’re allowed to feel anything you want, but you also need to understand my intentions. That’s why we’re talking about it.”
