I strip off my gloves, toss them, and lean back.“That’s the point.”
Laine comes over and studies the work.His expression doesn’t change much, but there is the faintest nod.Approval.Alistair leans in too, eyes flicking to mine, a silent acknowledgment.Even Luke, cocky bastard that he is, let out a low whistle.
Skye is already snapping photos, practically vibrating.“Holy shit, Maverick, this is insane.Moody.Dark.It’s perfect.This’ll blow up online.”
And then, from the corner, I feel it.Her.Zora is watching from just outside my booth.
She didn’t mean to, her camera is raised, lens focused on the piece, but her eyes slide past the viewfinder, locking on me for just a fraction of a second.The air shifts and my chest tightens.
But her walls slam back up instantly.She clicks the shutter, turns away, and says something to Skye that makes the younger woman laugh.Like I’m not even there.
I tell myself I don’t care.But when the client walks out, grinning like a kid, when Laine claps me on the shoulder and mutters, “Good work,” when the rest of the crew goes back to their rhythm, I sit there staring at my ink-stained gloves and think about her.About the way her mouth used to soften under mine, the way she used to trace the tattoos on my arms like they were secrets only she could read.
And I hated myself for wanting it all back.
I pack up and wipe down my station, the motions automatic.The shop noise swells again—Luke teasing Hailey, Skye’s phone buzzing nonstop, clients chatting nervously in the waiting area.It should have felt overwhelming.Instead, it felt like belonging.
Almost.
Because belonging means being whole.And no matter how good the ink looks, no matter how steady my hands are, one look at Zora reminds me I’m still a broken man chasing pieces I’ll never get back.
I scrub down the counter harder than necessary, my jaw tight.I tell myself to focus on the work, on proving myself here.On keeping my head down.But the truth is simple.Brutal, actually.I came back to Franklinton for a job.A clean slate.But already, I can’t stop orbiting her again.
Chapter Four
The Great Pretender
Zora
If I had known Maverick Hall was going to be leaning against the back counter this morning, arms folded, tattoos gleaming under the shop lights like sin itself, I might’ve called in sick.Not that I ever do, I don’t get the luxury of falling apart.Not when Ivy depends on me.
But walking into House of Ink today, camera bag slung over my shoulder, the first thing I saw was him.And my lungs forgot how to work.
So I did what I do best.Pretend.
“Morning,” I chirp to Skye, who is already buzzing around the front like she’s had three cups of coffee too many.My smile is practiced, steady, the kind that doesn’t show teeth because I don’t trust it not to shake.
