Page 9

“I didn't move,” Ross presses his back into the chair.

“You flexed,” I raise and eyebrow, keeping my eyes on the stencil.

“I breathed.”

“Try doing less of that.” I fight a smile.

Ross looks down at me, his brows lifting. “You want me to stop breathing?”

“Temporarily.” I guide his arm back into position and his mouth twitches causing me to freeze. “Did you almost smile?” I pause with the machine above his skin.

“No,” Ross answers, fixing his gaze on the opposite wall.

“You did,” I insist, smiling as I set the machine aside.

“Keep working.” Ross looks away from me.

“Bossy,” I mutter.

“Kira,” He warns, lifting his chin.

There it is—that voice. Deep and warning. I love it, probably more than I should. I keep working, grateful for the machine's buzz because it fills the silence. The truth is, my hands are steady because they have to be. The rest of me is a mess. I keep thinking about the way he looked at my sketch, how his face changed when he understood the stars. I wanted to reach out then, not as his tattoo artist or the woman who teases him over coffee, but as someone who knows how grief leaves empty rooms inside you. My parents are alive, but I've watched Keanu carry responsibility since we opened this shop together. I know what it looks like when love turns into obligation if you're not careful.

Ross cares deeply about his sisters. But who cares that much about Ross? The thought sneaks up on me. I want to. My hand almost stops working. That's not just a crush. That's not just playful flirting with the hot neighbor. That's something serious.

Two hours later, I wipe away the last bit of ink. The tattoo looks great: strong mountains, dark pines, and stars that only someone who knows the story would notice. Ross stares at it in the mirror for a long time without saying a word and I start to get nervous.

“Do you hate it?” I study his expression in the mirror.

His gaze finds mine in the reflection. “No.” He shakes his head.

“Then say something,”

“I love it.” Ross’s voice roughens causing my chest to squeeze. He turns toward me. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” I reply, folding my hands together to keep from reaching for him.

Then he hugs me. Ross Wilson. The man who growls at me every morning. Hugs me. My cheek lands against his bare chest. His arms close around me, and I forget how breathing works. He smells like coffee, cedar, and him. My arms slide around his waist. Neither of us moves away. This is not a casual hug. I can make Ross blush with one outrageous comment, but when he gives me a sincere compliment, I lose every clever word I've ever known. I wonder if he realizes how much power he has over me. I wonder whether telling him would bring us closer or make him retreat behind that familiar gruff expression. This is a man holding on. And heaven help me, I hold on too.

His chin brushes my hair. “Kira.” He steps closer.

I tilt my head back. His face is close. Too close. Or not close enough. His eyes drop to my lips. Finally. Months of flirting. Months of teasing. Months of wondering. “Ross,” I answer, trying to keep my voice steady.

His hand rises and his thumb touches my jaw. Every playful comeback disappears from my head. “What do you want, Kira?” He asks, searching my face.

I should make a joke. I should protect myself. Instead, the truth escapes. “You,” I whisper, meeting his eyes.

His eyes darken and my heart slams against my ribs. Then because the universe must hate me, Keanu calls from the front. “Kira?”

I exhale. “Saved by my brother."

“I wasn’t going to kiss you.” Ross takes a step back.

“Liar,” I answer, crossing my arms.

He grabs his shirt. I watch him put it on, disappointed and relieved at the same time. Because if he had kissed me, I know exactly what would have happened. I would have kissed him back. And nothing between us would ever be simple again.

“See you tomorrow morning?” I ask, moving toward the counter.