“Nope.”
“Oh.” She tilts her head, sizing me up. “Funny. You look like the kind of guy who’d love attention.”
How wrong you are, little bird.
I cross my arms over my chest and continue glaring at her. She doesn’t flinch.
“What’s with the crow?” I nod at the pin.
“They’re my favorite bird.” She glances down, fingers brushing over the glittering black stones. “Did you know crows can remember human faces for years? They even warn each other about people they don’t like. My channel’s calledThe Curious Crow.”
She widens her eyes, as if she’s waiting for a flicker of recognition.
I keep my expression blank. “Curiosity kills, or haven’t you heard?”
She slowly raises her gaze to the ceiling, like she can’t believe she’s dealing with such an uncreative dumbass.
Her eyes drop back to mine. A shade of blue so faded they’re close to the winter sky. “And satisfaction brought it back. Come on, that line’s older than your shop. Be more original.”
My jaw ticks. “Not here to be entertaining.”
“You’re here to be rude, then?”
“When needed.”
She blows out a breath, lips twisting with annoyance. “I’ve been called worse than rude myself. Usually by men who think I ask too many questions.”
“You do.”
Her perfectly arched eyebrows draw together. For a second her confidence falters. “How can you say that? You’ve known me all of thirty seconds.”
“That’s plenty.”
A flash of hurt crosses her expression.
Did I go too far? The question lodges heavy in my chest. I usually don’t give a fuck about bruising anyone’s feelings. But the thought of being responsible for snuffing out the spark in her eyes is intolerable. I don’t even want to consider why.
She needs to go. It’s too dangerous for her to ask these questions.
“Unless you want to make an appointment.” I nod toward the posters on the wall—unimaginative flash pieces I churn out for tourists. “Or talk about an original design you’d like me to draw up for you. Otherwise, I’m busy.”
She lifts her chin and laughs, brittle at the edges. Covering. Still, the sound hooks under my ribs. My tattoos flare hot, hungry, like they want to drag the real thing out of her.
I need her to leave.
But I want her to stay.
She studies me, eyes narrowing like she’s planning her next line of attack. Then her mouth tilts. “Has anyone ever pointed out that you try way too hard to be scary?”
My jaw locks. “Is that so?”
“Yup.” She nods once. “The scowl. Crossed arms. Gravelly voice.” She lifts her hand and ticks off each offense on her fingers one by one. “It kinda gives the impression you googled ‘badass biker’ and checked each item off the list.” She tilts her head and asks sweetly, “Do you practice in front of a mirror?”
The corner of my mouth twitches, betraying me before I can lock it down. I smother my amusement with a grunt.
Her smile sharpens into victory. “Careful,” she teases. “You almost looked human for a nanosecond.”
“Guess I slipped,” I mutter.
