The damn blue hair. I can never hide.
“Hey, Matty,” he calls and jogs across the street.
He remembers my name? Weird.
I jump to my feet. Okay, I’m not prepared for this and definitely not prepared for how hot he actually is.
Stone hits the sweet spot between pretty and brooding. His skin is golden, with richer brown undertones, and his lips are full and puffy. Sinewy muscles run up his arms, and among all the dark tattoos, it’s a snake wrapped around a realistic heart that grabs my attention this time.
I drag my eyes across his lips and the smooth skin of his cheeks, drawn into the surprisingly delicate beauty of his features, which contrasts with the rest of his look. “Hey, Stone,” I say, sticking his card in my pocket. “How’s it going?”
He nods back to the shop as he shoves his hands in the pockets of his tight black jeans. “You here to see me?”
“Yes,” I answer quickly. “I mean, I’m not sure. I was thinking of getting a tattoo, but I haven’t decided yet.”
“Cool.”
He tilts his eyes down my body and back up again, sending a wave of heat through me. Like at the park, his energy is steady and cool, and for some reason, that makes me want to jump out of my skin.
Fuck, okay. He’s hot. That’s just a simple fact.
He’s mouthwateringly hot, but whatever. He hangs out with a bunch of pricks, and we probably have nothing in common, so I might as well just push that thought out of mind and ignore my thickening cock so I can focus on what I really want from him.
“Mixie,” I blurt out. “My cat companion.”
He arches an eyebrow. “Your cat companion,” he repeats, his low voice dripping like honey. “Wasn’t that your friend’s name?”
“And my cat. She died recently. The cat, that is, not the friend. I’m thinking of getting a tattoo to remember her.”
“Right,” he nods. “Got it. The good news is portraiture is my specialty.” He turns the inside of his forearm to face me, revealing a portrait of an older woman with curly dark hair. It’s intricately detailed with soft hashmarks, and I instantly feel like I know the person he’s showing me.
“You did that?”
“Very slowly,” he answers, shoving his hand back in his pocket. “It’s hard to work on yourself. She’s my grandma, though, so it felt personal.”
He stares at me expectantly, evening light glinting off his chocolate gaze and a swirl of complicated emotions in his eyes. For a second, I stare back, lost in the surprising sweetness of a guy like him getting a tattoo of his grandma.
Then I realize that he’s waiting for me to say something.
“It’s beautiful! Really nice shading.”
“Oh, thanks.” He sounds a little surprised, and a slight smile plays on his lips. “I’m proud of how the linework turned out, especially. Want to come inside, set up an appointment?”
I tap my fingers against my chin to make an exaggerated show of thinking about it. I did come all this way, and he’s obviously a skilled artist.
My craving for a distraction wrestles with my fear of needles and the memory of the assholes who screwed up the memorial service.
Mainly, though, it’s dollar signs that are pulling me back from the precipice. I’m living on a shoestring budget as it is, and I know a good portrait tattoo doesn’t come cheap.
“I’ll call back,” I answer finally. “My schedule is very busy the next few weeks.”
“Right,” he says but doesn’t make an excuse to walk away. Instead, we linger by each other. I toe the pavement with my Converse, and he rocks back on the heels of his boots.
“Actually, could I buy you a beer?”
“A beer?” I blurt out as though I’ve never heard of such a thing.
As though it’s totally absurd for a guy like him to buy a beer for a guy like me, which it kind of is.
