His front door was navy with a little gold knocker. Ignoring it, she pounded her knuckles against the wood and waited for him to keep her waiting. Instead, there was a soft pad of feet, and the door swung open.
Oof.
His height struck her first. Even barefoot, he was so tall. She’d forgotten that. He’d been sitting at the Village Belle, not towering above her like a giant Ken doll. The second thing that struck her shouldn’t have been so surprising, but it was. He was sohot. Broad-shouldered and tan, his white t-shirt made his husky dog blue eyes look even bluer. She tried to picture Vince, the bartender, but couldn’t recall what he looked like. What did anyone look like except the man standing in front of her?
“Tabitha,” Toby said, his smile piercing her like lightning.
She clenched her teeth, inclining her head in a ‘you gonna let me in?’ gesture. He stepped aside, and she carried her heavy ass tattooing bag into his beachside mansion.
The foyer was enormous, all leafy houseplants and splashy modern art. Also, he had a fucking foyer. In spite of herself, she had to admit it was a nice place. Clean and pretty and smelling of rich-person candles. She recalled his parents’ dank little weatherboard shack, replete with wet dog carpets and gory sculptures of Jesus bleeding to death, and felt something close to pride in her nemesis. Shaking her head, she hoisted a blank look onto her face.
“Want a drink?” Toby said, closing the door.
The little click of the lock and the knowledge they were now alone made her mouth go dry. “Nope,” she called over her shoulder. “Where we doing this? And if you say, ‘the bedroom,’ I’ll sack tap you.”
Toby chuckled, and for the millionth time, Tabby wondered what had happened to the stammering mess that used to be her friend.
“Not the bedroom,” he said. “This way.”
He overtook her, heading for the floating staircase. “Can I carry that bag for you?”
“No,” she said, raising it protectively against her body. She came to regret that decision as she hauled it up two flights of stairs.
“Why?” she wanted to ask. “Why is your house so big, you prancing tit?”
But mostly, she was trying not to stare at his ass. Had he worn tight pants on purpose, or was she just being a sex pest? She hadn’t slept with anyone since Sparkling Whine went arse up. She should have. She’d come to Toby’s house with the lady equivalent of a loaded gun.
I’ll text Vince, the horny barman, before I come back for the next session, she told herself.This is way too dangerous.
Just when she was starting to think the stairs were never going to end and she was trapped in a liminal space, Toby veered into a massive living room with windows overlooking the ocean. There was a huge TV, a couch big enough for twelve and a massage table covered in a sheet. Beside it stood a small desk with a swivel lamp and a rotating chair, similar to the ones she used at Silver Daughters. Newer than the ones she used at Silver Daughters.
“Here, okay?” Toby asked, scanning her in a way that made her wish she’d done her nails.
“It’s fine.” She hauled her bag onto the couch. “You own a massage table?”
“Rented one. I wanted you to be comfortable.”
“So why are you still here?”
He smirked, his gaze flicking to the side as if to say, ‘Who is this woman?’ It sent another shower of sparks along her skin, and she buried her face in her bag, pulling out slip paper and ink pots at random.
Dearest lord, why must I be so sexually damaged?
Toby walked behind her, giving her the feeling she was prey circled by a predator. “Is the table fine? Does it work?”
“Yeah, should do.” She extracted her roll of protective wrap and began covering the massage sheet with thin layers of sanitary plastic. The table was waist-high, already adjusted to the level she needed to tattoo. God, Toby was such an asshat. Why didheremember how tallshewas?
“Need a hand?” Toby asked.
“Not from you.” Satisfied the table was covered, she began wrapping the desk and chair.
“Looks like you’re setting up a crime scene,” Toby said. “Sure you’re not here to murder me, Tabitha?”
She wanted to say, ‘You’d love that, wouldn’t you, you sex freak?’ but caught herself in time. She wasn’t here to banter, she was here to do her job and go home. When everything was covered in protective wrap, she turned to look at Toby, and his dumb, handsome face almost knocked her sideways again. His cheekbones were so… and his skin was… what kind of blood-infused moisturiser did rich people have access to, anyway?
Toby raised a sandy brow. “Yes?”
“Tarp off and get on the table.”
