“Yes, ma’am.”
“Shut up, nutsack.”
Tabby knew she was being rude—not cute-rude, asshole-rude—but Toby was totally unfazed. He swaggered over to the massage table and lifted his t-shirt.
Oof.
Oof.
Fucking OOF.
His body was entirely different from the one she’d once clawed, stroked, and bitten. Back then, it had been nice, but this was… impossible. All ridges and bulges and fitness magazine lines, his skin buttery tan like he spent his life riding horses shirtless instead of attending Christian school and playingMagic: The Gathering.
She mentally Photoshopped her tattoo onto his right bicep, and the effect made her want to smack something. It would look fantastic, interesting, and sexy without being pretentious. A unique piece of art that would have all the blondes in South Yarra telling their friends, ‘Tobythinksabout stuff, y’know?’
It wasn’t fair, her providing more clout to a guy who already had way too many staircases.
Colombia, she reminded herself, pulling out her JBL Clip.Thirteen grand. Speaking of which…
“Where’s the money?” she said, pulling out her phone and connecting to the speaker. “You said?—”
“Five K up front.” He walked back to the couch and plucked up an envelope. “Here.”
She expected him to hand it over, but he just stood there, holding the envelope next to his abs like he wanted her to examine the hard ladders of muscle. Tabby ignored him, opening Spotify and selecting her ‘tattooing cunts’ playlist—all hard bass and angry female singers. Nothing light or romantic in sight.
“Cheers,” she said, refusing to look at him. “Put it in my bag. I’ll count it later.”
“I thought you’d want to check it wasn’t Monopoly money, but if you trust me…” Toby tossed the envelope onto her duffel and sat on the massage table, extending his long chino-ed legs in front of him. Tabby wished he was wearing shoes. The sight of his bare feet made everything feel even more intimate.
“I don’t trust you,” she said. “I just need to set the mood.”
Toby grinned until Missy Elliott started blaring through the JBL clip, rapping about what a bitch she was.
“Right,” Tabby said in the most businesslike voice she could summon. “You wanna look over the design before I put the stencil on?”
“Nope.”
“I’ve added more detail to the stag since last time.”
He shrugged. “I trust your judgement.”
Tabby scrunched her eyes at him. “Is this a power play?”
“Maybe I just trust you, Tabitha?”
“Stop saying my name like that.”
“Like what, Tabitha?”
He said it slowly, melting the syllables in his mouth like sugar flakes. Tabby rolled her eyes and took out her stencil and sanitation wipes. She pulled out her black tattooing gloves and tugged them on slowly, aware both that she was stalling for time and that Toby Tennant was staring at her ass. If only she could put a blanket on his head and pass it off as a standard tattooing procedure…
“So,” Toby said. “How’s things?”
“Sick,” she muttered. She needed to get laid. Sheshouldgo out with Vince. Or head back to the wine bar after she was done here and fuck him…
She took a swift breath, collected everything she needed and walked toward the massage table. As she arranged her ink and wipes on the desk, she smelled him, a velvety aftershave that made her mouth water, and beneath it—and infinitely more dangerous—his sweet, puppyish Toby scent. It transported her back to their first hangout, sitting on his parents’ kitchen floor with Mopsy’s mongrel pups in their laps, talking about school and travel and thePandemicboard game. They’d played a round together, drinking tea and laughing until Toby got worried his folks would come home. She remembered kissing his cheek goodbye, and a wave of sadness rolled over her, so strong she almost dropped her bottle of grey wash.
“Tabby?”
