Rome squeezed my wrist gently, then smiled. “Good.”
Chapter Eight
Rome
“Good.”
The word came out rougher than I intended.
Josie sat in the tattoo chair looking at me like she was trying to decide if trusting me was brave or stupid. The inside of her wrist rested in my hand, her pulse fluttering beneath my thumb. I felt every beat of it.
I didn’t get nervous tattooing people. Didn’t matter if it was a first tattoo or their fiftieth. Didn’t matter if they were eighteen or eighty. I had been doing this for eight years. I knew what I was doing.
But Josie sitting in my chair? That felt different.
I moved away to give myself a second to breathe and finished setting up. New needles. Fresh ink cap. Paper towels. Everything laid out exactly where I wanted it.
Routine.
Routine was good.
Routine didn’t care that the woman in my chair smelled like vanilla and strawberries.
Routine didn’t notice the way she’d tucked her hair behind her ear three times in the last minute.
Routine definitely didn’t think she looked pretty sitting there trying to act brave.
I snapped on my gloves. “You can still back out.”
Josie lifted her chin. “I know.”
“Just saying.”
“I’m not.”
“Okay.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Why do you keep giving me an out?”
I looked up from the station. “Because if you leave here with something on your body forever, I want you to be damn sure it’s what you want.”
Her expression softened. That happened more often lately.
The sharp, sarcastic Josie was still there, but every now and then she looked at me like I was showing her a side of the world she hadn’t expected. “I am sure.”
I nodded. That was all I needed. I rolled my stool closer and gently took her wrist again.
She inhaled.
“You nervous?” I asked.
“A little.”
“You’ll be fine.”
“Easy for you to say.”
I smirked. “You’re right. I’ve never had a tattoo.”
