Chapter 1

Sophie

I bounce into the kitchen, kiss Dad on his bristly cheek, and grab a green apple from the fruit bowl. Without looking up from his newspaper, he smiles as I take a noisy bite of the crunchy fruit. "What are you up to today, Soph?"

"I have a job interview." Butterflies erupt in my stomach when I say the words. This could be the beginning of my dream come true.

His eyebrows rise and he drops the paper to the table. "Whereabouts?"

I swallow and fake nonchalance—"Fine Line Art Studio."—then take another bite of my apple as I wait for him to forbid me from going; it wouldn't be the first time.

He rolls back from the table with a proud smile and then pushes himself toward me. "Well, I wish you luck. It'll be fantastic to see you put your art degree to good use."

I blow out a relieved breath and carry James's breakfast dishes to the sink. I don't know how many times I've asked that kid to clean up after himself. "Thanks, Dad. I'm a little nervous." Obviously, he doesn't realize what type of art studio it is—a small blessing.

Creases form between his bushy brows as they dip. "Why on earth are you nervous? You graduated top of your fine arts class. Any art studio would be lucky to have you. You've been wasting your talent working as a receptionist at Beyond the Fringe." I know, but at least Marina gave me a job even though I had no clue about working in a hairdressing salon.

My heart floats with his praise. "Thanks, Dad. You're the best." I lean down and wrap my arms around his shoulders. "Anyway, I'd better get going." I grab my portfolio and toss my backpack over my shoulder.

"Good luck!" he calls as I close the front door behind me.

With giddiness erupting in my stomach, I skip down the ramp, throw my stuff onto the passenger seat, and climb behind the wheel of my car. Taking deep breaths to calm my racing heart, I put my car in drive and head for the city, blasting my favorite playlist to distract myself from my impending interview at one of the best tattoo studios in the city. I want this job with a desperation I haven't felt in a long time. Art is my passion and pieces of my soul have slowly crumbled away with every phone I answer and hair appointment I book at the salon.

I pull into the parking lot down the road from Fine Line and grab my stuff, then lock my car. Walking into the mall, I head straight for the bathroom and step into an empty stall. Dragging my ripped jeans out of my backpack, I slide my feet out of my ballet flats, and replace my A-line skirt, then strip out of my button-up sweater and cotton blouse and push my arms into my black silk shirt, tying it to show a sliver of my stomach. I shove my feet into my purple Converse high tops, then mess around with my dark hair, adding volume and making the waves look messy and unkempt. Once I'm happy with that, I add eyeliner around my eyes and a red stain to my lips. I carefully pack everything into my backpack, ensuring it won't crease so I can change before I go home.

When I look at myself in the mirror, I almost don't recognize the woman staring back at me. It's been a long time since I dressed like this. Almost nine years, if I'm counting. Nine years ago, I tucked my true self away after getting pregnant by my high school boyfriend and disappointing my father. I became the straight-laced, well-behaved daughter he deserved and have worked my ass off to be the best mom I can be. I never wanted to see that look on my father's face again, and I promised myself I would always toe the line and make better choices.

Applying for this job has renewed my worry that I'll disappoint my father, but I'm struggling to suppress the real me; my soul is dying little by little and I'm convinced there'll be nothing left by the time I turn thirty. My church-going father frowns upon people who have tattoos, judging them harshly based on the art adorning their bodies. I, on the other hand, adore tattoos. I love how individual they are and the stories they tell. How the gorgeous designs shift and change as the muscle moves beneath the flesh.

I suck in a long breath and blow it out slowly, then head back to my car to dump my backpack and grab my portfolio.

Here goes nothing.

I walk down the dirty sidewalk with confident steps—fake it 'til you make it, right?—and pass a guy who's probably more than a foot taller than me, leaning against the red brick wall while he talks on his phone. Large windows next to him offer me a view inside the studio and I pause to look. My lips tip up with approval as my heart hammers a nervous rhythm. I've seen some dingy tattoo places, but this one is classy; all clean lines, modern design, and soft edges created by greenery.

The deep timbre of the guy's voice causes a shiver to run down my spine and has me glancing toward him. His dark, messy hair has fallen forward, shielding him from my view, but I can see enough to know he has just the right amount of facial scruff—my kryptonite. He's dressed in black, from his combat boots to the black T-shirt stretched across his broad chest, leaving his tattooed arms exposed. Stepping around him, I rub my sweaty palm on my jeans, then open the door to the studio and walk inside, breathing deeply and working to maintain an air of confidence. I stop at the counter and readjust my portfolio tucked beneath my arm.

"Linc will be with you in a sec." I spin toward the voice and come face to face with a bald man sporting a beard that could rival Santa's. "Take a seat, doll." He winks at me, then drops his head to focus on the ass he's tattooing. One cheek is rather hairy, so I'm assuming he had to shave the one he's working on. I shudder a little on the inside. But I'll have to take the good with the bad, right? I'll finally be using my art daily and people will be inked forever with my designs. I can put up with a dude's hairy ass now and then.

The guy from outside storms in through the door, letting it bang loudly behind him. Anger and frustration radiate from him as he passes, making the air around me vibrate. His mood matches the color of his clothes, and I wonder if it was the phone call that upset him or if he's always an angry storm.

"Hey, Linc. Can you help our visitor?" The older tattoo artist calls out. Linc glares at me over his shoulder with a furrowed brow and I sit up straighter, holding my portfolio tightly in my lap as if it can protect me somehow.

Linc—Lincoln.

He's the boss.

He's the one I've been dealing with via email.

The one I'm here to see.

I swallow past the lump in my throat and try to fight my nerves. He seemed so … easygoing over email, but there's nothing easygoing about him in person. He's downright intimidating. Damn it. I don't know if I can do this.

C'mon Soph.

This is your dream job. You can do this. He's probably a soft teddy bear beneath all that angry energy, black fabric, and heavy boots.

Lincoln steps through a doorway and disappears from my sight and I collapse against the back of the green velvet-covered couch, blowing out a harsh breath. I don't understand how his mood seemed to follow him through the place like a wave cresting and crashing on the shore. There was a violence about him that was impossible to miss and I frown at my lap as I consider the possibility of working alongside someone with so much negative energy.

"Don't worry, doll. He's mostly all bark," the older guy calls across to me with a chuckle.

I try to smile and laugh at his obvious attempt at a joke, but I doubt I pull it off.