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Someone holds the door for us as we walk, and we keep going without stopping. It’s easy to be pulled into conversation, and we have bath time to do before bed.

I could tell my son that I could make him pancakes, but sometimes it’s nice to have someone else love on you. I know my place in my son’s life can’t be taken by anyone else, and I am definitely not going to be jealous of my family.

“Friday morning pancakes and a ride in grandpa’s fancy car it is.”

“Yes!” I guess we both win.

ARRAN

I count the hours until I see her again. I fell for her dark hair and bottomless eyes the second she walked into my tattoo shop to get her ears pierced. She always looks like she’s floating as she moves. It doesn’t matter if she’s wearing a dress or yoga pants that show off every inch of her body, she walks as if her feet never touch the ground.

I opened up this tattoo shop three years ago, and it’s no secret that the neighborhood didn’t want me. It’s full of families, cute art shops, and adorable little restaurants. It’s the kind of place you live in or come to spend the day to enjoy the idyllic beauty.

A tattoo shop doesn’t fit that aesthetic.

I still get glares from the older women when I take my break to grab food with a dark tee and jeans, my full ink sleeves on display, but I’m trying not to take it personally. It’s why I’ll smile and escort them across the street while chatting them up before telling them to have a wonderful day.

In my opinion, it’s easier to gain the public respect of others with honey than vitriol.

I love Magnus, I really do. The hack job he got on his chest when he was drunk was terrible, and no one would touch it because they were afraid they’d fuck it up even more. He’s known me too long to kill me for his own mistakes, so I agreed to have him come in.

The influx of clients I’m getting now are getting me more side eyes than ever. However, they’re all incredibly respectful while in the neighborhood, support local businesses, and then ride out after their tattoo.

“Hello, Mrs. Ferguson,” I murmur, cleaning up my station. I did exactly what I told Isla I was going to do: I cleared my Thursday afternoon and night. My client grumbled, but I told him I’d make it worth his while tomorrow.

I can’t miss out on time with Isla again. Our “schedule conflicts” started innocently enough after our date. I got into my head afterward and wondered if I was being too clingy, which caused me to reschedule.

After that, she had an appointment, and then I had work. It’s been one thing after another. It’s safe to say, I’ll never take for granted a free moment between us because we’re both busy people.

“Don’t ‘hello’ me,” she grumbles. Mrs. Ferguson has been the biggest critic of my shop, despite how long I’ve been here. I have a motorcycle but tend to walk to work because she doesn’t like how loud it is. She has a quilt store next to mine and teaches classes there.

Despite how much she complains to me, she seems to be very patient with others.

The other artists in my shop keep their heads down while they work, and I guide her away from anyone who could overhear her.

“Why are you upset with me today?” I ask.

“You’re dating Isla. Everyone heard you ask her out. Do you really think that’s a good idea with the kind of…” Mrs. Ferguson closes her eyes and begins to count, and my lips twitch as I visibly watch her remind herself to watch her words. Still, there is fire in her gaze as her lids snap open and I know I’m still in for it.

“Have you been sent to tell me I’m not good enough for her?” I ask.

“Are you wearing that on your date?” she growls.

Rolling my eyes, I shake my head as I pick up my keys as I get ready to leave. Isla is a very private person, and is careful about her safety. It feels wrong to give her the address to my home and expect her to come over, yet I need to respect her boundaries.

She has a son, and it makes sense that she’s never allowed me to walk her home.

I’m going home to shower and change before I begin making dinner. My idea of a picnic and art project is a bit different from other people’s, but it’ll be low key and fun.

“I’ve been working all day. I’m going to shower, cook for Isla, and hopefully smell and look better for her.”

Mrs. Ferguson leans forward and sniffs me as I bark out a laugh of disbelief. She’s widowed with three older children who all have kids and come to visit her regularly. While she’s a busybody, I can tell her family adores her.

“You don’t smell bad,” she shrugs.

“Are we done here?” I ask.

“I suppose. Is there a reason why your clientele has changed so much?”