Page 2 of Inked Daddies

I chuckle at the thought. As if Captain America could compare.

Sam is taller than me—everyone is taller than me—and has a silver and brown undercut that’s just long enough on the top to be called shaggy. There’s that jawline that could cut glass it’s so sharp. He has two sleeves of tattoos, each one telling their own story. But it’s his eyes that undo me every time. The darkest brown, almost black. I could get lost in those eyes. Willingly.

Trick must have cut another joke because Sam’s laughing along with Hugo. Trick Morrissey is a different kind of attractive. Where Sam has finer features, Trick is big. Bulky, even.

He has a granite jaw and a strong nose below his icy blue eyes. But his eyes are the only thing that’s cold about him. Trick’s a man made of mirth and mischief, always there to cut a joke or say something inappropriate in the best way possible. His blackbuzz cut has silver at the sides, telling the surprising truth of his age. A black snake tattoo wraps around his left arm and vanishes beneath his T-shirt. I don’t know how far it goes, but I’d love to find out. When he smiles, all I see is someone I’d like to climb.

Worse still, his pierced tongue distracts me when he comes over for beers with my father.

And then, there’s Hugo Bonhomme. The man is trouble given form.

The tallest of the three, lean and chiseled. If he wasn’t tattooed and pierced, he could have been a model when he was younger. His straight blond hair just reaches his shoulders, and it has streaks of white that make him look ethereal. His emerald-green eyes sparkle the way Christmas lights do. I’d think they were colored contacts—who has eyes like that? But they’ve been the same shade since I was a child. He looks Nordic, speaks French and other languages, and has been my personal fantasy since I can recall.

They all have.

My pulse quickens every time I see them move, even though I know nothing will ever come of it. It doesn’t matter how long I stare or how many daydreams I let myself slip into—guys like them don’t go for girls like me. And even if they did, my dad would kill me.

The bell jingles again, and I turn to see who’s come in. Ugh, it’s Albert.

My shoulders tense instantly. He’s a member of my dad’s congregation, but there’s something about him that’s always made me uneasy. He’s older than my father by at least twenty years, but that’s not why he sets me on edge. The way he looks atme lingers too long, his eyes trailing over me like I’m something he’s deciding whether to buy.

He’s wealthy enough to influence the parish, and rumor has it, he’s got friends at the capitol, so everyone caters to him. Everyone but me.

“Marie,” he says, his voice oily and too familiar.

“Albert,” I reply, forcing a polite smile. “How can I help you?”

“Just stopping in,” he says, but his eyes sweep the mostly empty library like he’s looking for something—or someone. His suit is too heavy for this weather, but he’s bony enough that I doubt the heat bothers him. “Your father said you were working today.”

My skin crawls. “He mentioned that?”

“You know how proud he is of you. Always talking about how hard you work.”

I don’t answer, just step out from behind the desk, moving toward the door. “We’re about to close, actually. Anything you need?”

He studies me for a second too long, then shakes his head. “No. Just saying hello.”

“Okay. Have a good night.” I open the door for him, holding it until he steps outside. When he’s gone, I lock the door behind him, my pulse ticking a little faster. His cologne lingers, making me nauseous.

The rest of the evening passes in a blur of routine. I finish shelving, turn off the lights, and lock up, just like I’ve done a dozen times before.

But as I cross the dirt parking lot toward my car, the uneasy feeling I had with Albert doesn’t go away. The hair on the back of my neck stands up, and I glance over my shoulder.

Someone’s there.

My heart jumps into my throat, and I grip my keys tightly, spinning to face him. “What do you want…”

But it’s not Albert.

It’s a man I don’t recognize, and he’s…stunning. Dark hair, sharp jawline, tattoos peeking out from under his hoodie on his throat and hands. Two teardrop tattoos on his left cheek. He looks like he stepped right out of my daydreams about the guys across the street, but there’s something about the way he’s looking at me that makes my heart pound for an entirely different reason.

I feel like prey. The air goes still, and my mind flashes to every nature documentary I’ve seen. The rabbit who senses danger, the snake who silently approaches…

“The library’s closed,” I say, my voice a little too sharp. “You’ll have to come back tomorrow.”

He steps closer, and I step back, the sand and gravel crunching under my shoes.

“I’m not here for books,” he says, his voice low and rough. “And I think you know that.”

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