“Yeah.” I rubbed my palms down my thighs. “This is it.”
She unbuckled immediately. “Well…are we going in?”
“That’s the plan.”
“Oh, are you stuck—is that the problem?” She leaned over and pressed the button on my seat belt. “You’re free now. Let’s go, Maccie.”
She pushed her door open, and the wind caught her hair, onyx strands whipping around her face as she stepped out onto the sidewalk. I came around the hood of the truck, trying not to notice how natural she looked standing there waiting for me. Or how much I liked it.
I pulled the door open and held it for her, the bell overhead chiming as we stepped inside.
The place was all dark walls and warm light. Framed flash sheets lined one side, bold traditional pieces mixed with fine-line work and black-and-gray realism. The floors were polished concrete, the whole space both industrial and welcoming.
“Wow,” Zara breathed, turning slowly. “I’ve never been in a tattoo studio. This is not what I expected.”
“What did you expect?”
“I don’t know. Skull wallpaper. A scary guy named Razor.”
A bark of laughter sounded from the hallway. “We had a Razor once,” Jett called out as he rounded the corner. “He wasn’t all that scary—and only lasted two weeks. Turned out he was allergic to gloves. And by allergic, I mean he kept ‘forgetting’ to wear them.”
Jett grinned at us, wiping his hands on a paper towel. He looked exactly like he always did: dark hair pulled back, ink crawling up both forearms, steady eyes that missed nothing.
“Well, I’ll be…” he said, his gaze bouncing between us. “If it isn’t Baby Kelly.”
“Don’t start,” I muttered.
“Too late.” He stuck his hand out to me first, clasping forearms instead of shaking. “You’re right on time.”
Then he looked at Zara, and an even bigger smile spread across his face. “And who did you bring me?”
Zara returned his smile. “I’m Zara, Cormac’s emotional support.”
“Ah.” Jett nodded solemnly. “We highly encourage those.”
“I’m not sure I require emotional support for this appointment.”
She bumped her shoulder into my arm. “You never know when you might need me, Maccie.”
“Maccie,” Jett repeated. “Adorable.”
Then he laughed and gestured toward the front of the shop. “Welcome to my shop. Make yourself comfortable while I get set up.”
I slipped my fingers around Zara’s wrist. “Come here. I want to show you something.”
She followed me to the reception desk, and I let go of her to smooth my hand over the lacquered top.
“It’s pretty,” she said.
“Deke built this for Jett. He built most of the furniture here, but this is his newest piece.”
My brother-in-law had more talent in one finger than most people had in their whole body. His custom carpentry business was still getting off the ground, but each passing year, he got busier and busier, and I was glad he was finally getting recognition.
Zara ran her fingers over the edge. “Wow. Phoebe is a lucky woman. Or is it, like, a cobbler’s-kids-have-no-shoes situation?”
I chuckled. “Not at all. I’m pretty sure Deke would build Phoebe the gates of Heaven if she asked. She has several pieces he’s made in their house.”
“Then I affirm my statement: she’s lucky. I guess they both are. She bakes, he builds. What a life.”
