Page 4 of Inked Soul

“It’s only Wednesday.” I frown.

I know I don’t work on just anyone, but I thought I had more appointments this week. I may need to rethink the policy I have on clients. I can’t only work once a damn week. I’ll go nuts staring at the fucking walls in my apartment.

“I know. I have you booked up for the next two weeks, if that makes you feel better, but nothing for the rest of this week.”

“That seems like just my luck.” I smile, rapping my knuckles on the glass counter. “I’m going to clean up and head out.”

At least I have some prospects in the next couple of weeks.

“Have fun.”

****

“Fuck!”

I hear her curse before I even hit the landing to my floor.

“Why the hell is this so damn difficult?” Abigail says, sighing loudly.

“Because you need to use a screwdriver,” I reply from the doorway, watching her struggle to assemble what looks like a bookshelf.

She screams, holding tightly to her chest with one hand while wielding a butter knife in the other.

“What the hell, dude?” she yells. “You’ll give me a heart attack.”

“Sorry,” I say, chuckling, holding both my hands in the air.

“Whatever,” Abigail mumbles, returning to her futile task.

“Do you need some help with that?” I ask, trying but failing to hide the amusement in my tone.

She glares at me. “No,” she says sarcastically. “Can’t you see how easy this is?”

Shaking my head, I leave her to her own devices and head over to my apartment where I grab my toolbox and a beer.

“Move over, woman,” I say as I walk back into her apartment. “Let me do this before you break something. Or hurt yourself.”

Just then, Tyler makes a cooing sound over the monitor she has set up on the arm of the gray two-seater couch. She glares at me as she moves out of the way and toward her son.

“You should thank him for saving your ass. I hate men telling me what to do.”

A chuckle escapes me as her ass sashays away from me. Now that she isn’t a sobbing mess with a screaming child, I can actually appreciate her. She is a beautiful woman. Short and curvy, her black hair piled on top of her head in that messy nest women often make. I’ve seen a hint of pink peeking out through the black and wonder how much color she actually has in there.

Assembling the shelf is faster than I thought it would be.

“Wow,” she says behind me.

“I know, right,” I reply. “If you have the right tools the job goes so much faster.”

“Kiss my ass,” she sasses. “I’m not a handyman.”

Looking up from my spot beside the shelf, my gaze travels up her tanned, toned legs, over her tiny jean shorts. Her flat stomach peeks out beneath a baby pink halter top, her substantial chest, and finally stops on her makeup-free face. She is holding the little boy in her arms.

“Is there anything else that needs assembly?” I ask, my voice gravelly. I need to stop thinking with my dick, and manual labor should do the trick.

We haven’t even had a decent conversation and already I want to know what she looks like naked. I haven’t gotten laid in month, as picky about my sexual partners as I am about my clients at House of Ink, and that is clearly playing a role in my dirty thoughts right now.

She throws her head back and laughs. Fuck, that’s sexy. How the hell am I this attracted to a woman holding a baby?

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