Chapter 2

Lincoln

"I'm asking you to stop, Linc. Please," Mom begs as I rest my foot against the wall outside my studio.

"I can't. It's been part of me for so long. I don't know who I am without it." Out of the corner of my eye, I notice a pint-sized woman peering in through my studio windows. She may be short, but she has curves in all the right places—damn. And that long, thick hair. I'm a sucker for beautiful hair. An image of wrapping my fist through the strands and pushing her to her knees assaults me out of nowhere.

"It's been thirty-one years tomorrow. I miss her too. Don't you think pieces of my heart aren't missing? She was my baby girl." Her sigh rings out across the line and the pocket-sized woman steps inside my studio. "Every time you fight, you dredge up all the pain again … I worry I'll lose you too. I can't keep doing this, Linc. Can't you see that you're causing more harm than good?"

Like I need to be reminded what tomorrow is. It's not like I'll ever forget. I exhale a long breath. I hear what she's saying, but I can't stop. I don't want to. It's my way of coping. "I gotta go, Mom."

"Okay, Linc. Remember, I love you."

"Love you too, Mom." I disconnect the call and push off the wall, running my hand through my hair to push it out of my face. I need a fucking haircut, but the chick I normally see has moved south to be with her boyfriend, and I'm fussy about who cuts it.

Dragging open the heavy wood and glass door to the studio, I storm through and let it bang behind me. I can't believe she wants me to give up my fights. I'm only gonna stop when my body can't do it anymore, but maybe I shouldn't tell her about them. Let her think I've given it up. I doubt I'll be fighting too much longer, anyway.

"Hey, Linc. Can you help our visitor?" Ken calls from his station, pointing toward our waiting area. I peer over my shoulder at the pint-sized chick I saw enter—now that I look at her properly, she seems young, really young. She's sitting straight as a board, clutching a folder tightly on her lap. I keep walking and step into the office to give myself a moment to collect myself. I'm sure the college chick can wait a few minutes before I have to discuss yet another butterfly tattoo. What is it with girls and butterfly tattoos? Why can't they be a little more creative?

My phone vibrates in my pocket and I drag it out to read the screen. "Shit." I completely forgot about the interview with Sophie.

The back door to the studio opens and Jenna steps inside. "Hey, Linc."

"Hey. How are you feeling?" I narrow my eyes and study her closely.

"Tired. And look at my feet." She shoves her foot at me, but I don't know what I'm supposed to be looking at. She shakes it around, lifts her other foot, and repeats the process. "I don't have ankles anymore," she complains.

Oh, yeah. I guess she doesn't. "Damn." I laugh and she whacks me playfully across the chest.

Her eyes go all dreamy as she rubs her very round stomach. "If I didn't love this bean so much, I'd be pissed at how much my body has changed."

"Pretty sure it's bigger than a bean now," I raise my eyebrows and pointedly look at the size of her belly. I'm not sure how she's standing upright. "What are you doing here, anyway? You're supposed to be home resting."

She waves off my comment. "I'm bored. There's nothing to do."

"I think that's the point, Jen." She shrugs. "You wanna do a consult while you're here? I'm waiting on the woman I'm supposed to interview for your position, and there's a college chick out front."

Her lips tip up and her eyes sparkle. "Sure." She waddles to the front of the studio and I pull out a sheet of paper to design a mechanical sleeve tattoo for a new client. I glance at the time. Sophie's late. That's strike one. I dislike tardiness.

I press the tip of my pencil to the paper, ready to make the first stroke. "The chick out front says she's here for the interview," Jenna says as she leans against the door. "Says her name's Sophie."

I spin in my chair to look at her. "Can't be. She told me she's twenty-six. That chick can't be over twenty."

"Why would she say she's here for an interview if she isn't?" Her lips tip up in that mischievous way of hers. "She's gorgeous."

Damn. At least she wasn't late, but I doubt she'll fit in here. I didn't notice any ink—a tattoo artist should have ink. It's bad for business if they don't. I blow out a harsh breath and rise to my feet. "You wanna sit in on the interview?"

"Nah. I'm gonna window shop for a bit, then go home and take a nap before Dean gets home."

"All right. Let me know if there's anything you need." She leaves out the back door and I step out of the office to meet with Sophie. This should be interesting. My first instinct is to tell her to fuck off for wasting my time. The only problem is that I'm short-staffed, and the samples of her artwork were spectacular. When I step through the door to the front of the studio, she has her head down, looking at something on her phone, the folder she was clutching when I walked in, balanced precariously on her lap. "Sophie?"

Her head snaps up, and she rises to her feet, clumsily gripping the folder. "Yes. Uh … hi. Yeah, I'm uh Sophie."

I suppress my grin at her awkwardness and hold out my hand. "Hi, I'm Lincoln. Would you like to come through to my office? We can get started."

"Sure. Yeah, uh that'd be great." I lead her through to my office, and her eyes widen as she scans the photographs on the walls, displaying some of our best work. "These are incredible." She steps closer to the life-size photograph of my back and presses her hand to her chest. "This one is full of pain, with that dark angel standing protectively over the little girl." Her eyes trace the image. "Those wings look like they could open, and he could fly away at any moment. The detail is incredible." She says the last part softly, more to herself than to me.

I move next to her. "That's some of Ken's work. The old guy out front." She turns her head to look at me, and I realize how close I'm standing. I thought her eyes were a simple color, but a ring of darker brown surrounds the lighter brown center with striations almost the color of coffee. Her lips part, and my gaze drops to the red-stained pillows. I wonder what color they are without all the crap on them? Shoving my hands in my front pockets, I step back and raise my chin to the chair opposite my desk. "Please take a seat, and we'll get started."

She makes herself comfortable and slides the folder she's holding across the table. "I thought I'd bring my full portfolio for you to see."

I leave it sitting in the middle of my desk. "I thought you said you were twenty-six on your application."

She straightens her spine, adding another inch to her height. "I am."

"You look younger."

"I can show you a copy of my birth certificate if you don't believe me," she fires back. She's no pushover. I like that. "I didn't think to bring it with me. What does my age matter, anyway?"

I shrug. "Just don't want someone who's not gonna be reliable, and I find kids can be flaky."

"Well, I'm not a kid, and I'm not flaky," she says firmly. "You can always rely on me to be on time, to do what's expected, if not more, and to take responsibility for any mistakes and work toward not making them again." She shrugs, raising a single brow. "I'm the best person for this position, Mr. Kingsley. You won't be sorry." Mr. Kingsley.

I appreciate her candor, and I know Ken will, too. I reach forward to collect her folder, sliding it closer. Without taking my eyes off the girl opposite me, I flip open the cover. I've already seen the pieces she attached to her application, but neither of those prepared me for the first illustration. Her talent and line work are exceptional. She'll be a fantastic asset to our team, providing an alternate style of artwork from Ken and me. "How long have you been drawing?"

"Since I was a kid. Then I studied art in high school and finally specialized in fine arts at community college." Her eyes scan the tattoo on my arm, and she lifts her chin toward it. "Who did that?"

I point toward the front room. "Ken."

Her eyebrows rise. "He's good."

"That he is." I study her closely. "You don't seem to have any art."

Defensiveness shadows her features. "Not that you can see."

That piques my interest. "So you do have art?"

Tucking her thick hair behind her ear, her eyes dart from one side to the other. "Yeah. Why?"

"It wouldn't sit well with me if you didn't have any art. It would suggest to me and our clients that you're not a fan of tattoos." I lift and drop one shoulder, tilting my head to the side. "It would come across as hypocritical." I wait for her to argue—she doesn't seem the type to take a comment like that lying down.

"Well, I have art," she snaps.

I raise my brows, waiting for her to expand, but she isn't forthcoming. "Right. How much tattoo experience have you had?"

She readjusts her position and studies the artwork behind my desk with great interest. "None," she murmurs.

Surely I didn't hear that correctly. I flip open her application and drag my eyes down the page. "It says here that you worked at artWORX for two years."

"Yeah, that's correct." She swallows, and I watch her slender throat move.

"As a …" I raise my eyebrows and leave the sentence hanging for her to finish.

Turning her head to the side, she finally responds. "Receptionist."

Damn it! I knew she was too good to be true. "This position is for a receptionist-slash-tattoo artist."

"I know." Pushing her shoulders back and sitting taller, she looks me in the eye. "I'm a fast learner, Mr. Kingsley." Shit, if she keeps calling me that, I won't be able to keep my hard-on at bay. "I already have the artistic ability. I just need to learn how to use the gun."

I run my hands through my messy hair. This isn't going how I thought it would. I stand abruptly, pushing my chair back so it bangs against the wall. "This isn't a trainee opportunity." I rest the tips of my fingers on my desk and lean forward—I'm sure from her lowered position I'm intimidating, but she doesn't budge. "It's not as simple as learning how to use the gun. There's technique, shading, color, design, communication, infection control, knowledge of the skin and muscles, wound care, scarring … there's so fucking much to know. It's not just drawing on flesh." This sort of attitude frustrates the shit out of me.

She stands too. "I know that. I want to learn. I've already been studying how to identify common skin diseases and how scarred skin can take ink. I know I need to have exceptional communication skills during every step of the process. I've been teaching myself the best hygiene practices, and I learned a fair amount during my time at artWORX. You can count on me. I need this job. I want this job. I was born to do this type of work."

Her words bleed with genuine passion and desire, and while common sense tells me this isn't what I need for the studio, I can't deny her artistic talent, her self-belief, or her desire for this opportunity. I blow out a long, frustrated breath and look away, giving myself time to think—something I can't do while she's looking at me with those bedroom eyes of hers. Standing upright, I push my hair back with agitation, and when I turn my gaze back toward her, I catch her watching me closely. "I'll need to discuss this with Ken. I'll call you one way or the other tonight."

Her shoulders sag, and the scent of defeat fills the air, replacing her coconut scent as she leans across my desk, using the tips of her fingers to drag her portfolio back toward her. "You know, it's hard to get experience when nobody's prepared to give you a chance to get it." She closes the folder. "Thank you for your time, Mr. Kingsley."

And with that parting sentence, she reminds me what an asshole I am. She hoists her purse over her shoulder and leaves my office without another word. My eyes drop to her perfect ass. It's probably for the best if I don't give her the position. She's far too enticing. The way she stood up to me was hot as fuck. Add in her artistic talent and the package she comes in, and she's way too tempting for a guy like me.