Page 3 of Lucas

“He’ll survive.”

He takes a drag off his dart and blows smoke into the chilly air. My eyes are transfixed on his mouth, the way his lips pucker to breathe in, exhale. It might be the sexist thing I’ve ever fucking seen.

Chalk that up to more ridiculousness, because cigarette smoke usually makes me gag.

Tattoo guy nudges his chin. “Where’s your jacket?”

“I’m not cold.”

His eyes land on my chest. “Oh yeah?”

I glance down, realizing that the third button on my blouse has popped open. Half my bra is exposed, and beneath the thin lace, my nipples are hard as pebbles. A smear of Austin’s blood cuts across the silk material on my left breast. Damn it. The blouse is thrift shop chic, but with Rubberneckers on the verge of bankruptcy, every item in my closet has a coveted, irreplaceable spot.

“Cold water will get that out,” he says, deadpan.

“Thanks.” Jesus. Now I’m taking laundry advice from a guy that just pummeled one of my employees. My stomach twists. How the hell am I going to explain this to Liz and Marnie? With our luck, Austin will go straight to Labor Relations —and that is the last thing we need.

Cool air snakes under my collar, rocking my core with another icy shiver.

Tattoo guy tosses what’s left of his smoke on the ground and stamps it out with the heel of his shoe. Not running shoes. Leather. Real, by the looks of it. The street lamp doesn’t offer enough light for me to make out the label, but I’d peg it as designer.

Which doesn’t quite fit with the rest of his casual attire. Fitted jeans, New York Giants ball cap, faded gray sweatshirt that looks like it’s seen better days. He shrugs out of the hoodie and hands it to me. I stare at him, unmoving. Tattoo guy has on a Metallica concert T-shirt—curious, but that isn’t what’s left me speechless.

The scorpion neck tattoo is just one mark on a body that is lean, toned, and peppered with ink. A Chinese Foo Dog perches on a Bogota surrounded in lush greenery, and red, orange, and yellow flowers. The vines twist from his wrist, up to his bicep, where snake eyes peer out from behind his elbow, reptilian scales rippling into his sleeve. On his left arm, a black panther crouches ready to pounce at its prey, claws bared, jaw unhinged. A blue waterfall cascades onto his forearm and pools at the base of his wrist. More jungle of varying shades of green fill in every available part of his flesh.

“Impressive, right?”

My mouth goes dry. “I can’t even imagine what those tattoos must have cost.”

Which is probably the lamest thing I can say, but when your livelihood is under direct attack by an asshole that clearly has money to burn, financial stuff just…blurts out. Ridiculous. I am.

Ridiculous.

“Probably more than it should have to be honest,” he says, with the hint of a smile that crinkles the corners of his eyes.

Funny, but seeing this guy nearly smile is way more exciting than watching one of those phony Wall Street types grin with their pearly whites every two seconds. It feels like an achievement to get an “almost” smile from sexy tattooed guy.

I peg him mid-twenties, but I’m shit with ages. He pushes the hoodie toward me again. “Here, put this on.”

I should go home, but my nerves are frayed, and for the first time in my life, I consider asking this guy for a smoke. My hands tremble as I reach for the sweatshirt instead, and I wrap it around my shoulders. I breathe in the scent of spiced cologne, so different from Austin’s cheap after-shave.

Tattoo guy shoves his hands back in his pockets, drawing my attention to his groin. I stare a little longer than I intend, imagining what’s behind that denim bulge. A lump forms at the back of my throat. I glance up, and realize I’ve been caught fantasizing. My face goes so hot, I’m sure steam rises from my cheeks.

Jesus, Eden, get a grip.

“I’m Lucas,” tattoo guy says, extending a hand.

My palm is slick with sweat. “Eden.”

Lucas nods. “Who was that jerk, anyway?”

I bite my lip, considering my response options. With Rubberneckers under public scrutiny, the less attention I draw to the company, the better. I opt for simplicity. “Obnoxious co-worker.”

Lucas snorts. “That’s the understatement of the century. If that clown worked for me, he’d be out on his ass.”

“Right now, he’s flat on his ass.” The low hum of guilt buzzes in my ears, a stark reminder that even though Austin was absolutely out of line tonight, stress has made our entire team—or what’s left of it—act of character. Which might explain why as I stand next to Lucas, my stomach flutters like there are a thousand butterflies inside it, chasing each other in tight circles. “But yeah, he’ll be gone tomorrow.”

The truth is, he might have been let go anyway, another casualty of the impending lawsuit. But now, he leaves without his dignity or a decent reference, which sucks. I swallow hard. We’re three employees down, already handicapped. Justified or not, losing Austin will further cripple us.