Page 5 of Axel

Axel wasn’t kidding.Just above my hip was probably one of the most painful spots I could have chosen to get a tattoo. I had hoped my curvy cushion would’ve been enough to keep my ribs from feeling the pressure of the needle, but it wasn’t.

“You okay?” he asks for at least the third time since we started.

“Yep. Just peachy.” I stare at the ceiling, vicariously feeling a little bit of Hope’s queasiness around the whole needle thing. I was fine until Axel told me there’d be several needles on his tattoo gun when he moved to shading. Damn my author curiosity.

“We can take a break whenever you need.”

“I can take it.”

“You need to tell me if you’re getting lightheaded,” he warns.

“I will. But right now, I’m fine.”

I try to focus on the other details around me. The exposed ceiling beam, for instance. That’s a detail I can include in my book. Or the memory of Axel’s warm, rough hand smoothing the stencil transfer paper over my skin. His fingers dangerously close to the waistband of my leggings. He was completelyprofessional, but a wicked part of me wishes he wouldn’t have been. Because that touch was surprisingly intimate despite not really knowing the man. The brush of those fingertips didn’t really feel like a stranger’s touch at all. How is that possible?

“You’re frowning.”

“I do that sometimes,” I reply, hoping he isn’t able to read what I’m truly thinking. I don’t dare tell Hope the crazy thought that just trespassed through my mind, or I’m certain she’ll be planning our wedding before I can pack a single suitcase.

“How long have you been an author?” Axel asks, most likely to distract me from the wince of pain I hiss out when the needle skims another rib.

“A little over five years.”

“That’s impressive.” He sounds like he means it, and that alerts the parade of butterflies in my stomach to activate. I’m confident in who I am, but it’s refreshing for a man to take my career seriously and show it some respect. So many of them call it a cute hobby or think I’m automatically into kinky things and hit on me. “How many books have you published?”

“Twenty-three.”

He lifts the tattoo gun from my skin, looking at me. “Really?”

“Is that surprising?”

“A little. But then again, it’d probably take me ten years to write one book. And I promise, no one would ever read it.”

“I’m a fast writer.” That’s why I know I’ll be ready to move in two weeks. I’ve already figured out the plot of my latest novel. I just need to fill in some of the details before I start drafting. And once I have those details, I’ll disappear into the story for hours at a time. I have no doubt this book will be in my editor’s hands when I board the plane destined for Hawaii.

“You said you’re moving?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“You don’t like it here?”

“I love it here.”

He stops again, looking at me strangely.

“If you keep stopping, it won’t be my fault if we’re here until tomorrow,” I tease.

“Sorry,” he says, sounding rattled. Which is odd. And probably a reaction I conjured in my head considering the way I’m overanalyzing it and already planning to weave it into my story. It’s not like he wants me to stay. We just met an hour ago. I blame it on the silly crush and push the thought aside. “I just don’t get why you’d move away from a place you love. Do you have family in Hawaii?”

“No, I don’t have any surviving family anywhere. It was always just my mom and me, and she passed away after I graduated college.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Thank you.”

He looks at me, as though assessing my age. I can’t stop my eyebrow from arching in tandem with my smirk. “That was ten years ago, in case you’re curious.”

“I was,” he admits without an ounce of shame, a flicker of interest dancing in his brown eyes. One corner of his mouth lifts in amusement, and dammit if it doesn’t make the rugged tattoo artist even sexier. For a single beat, I’m almost sad there won’t be a chance to see if this could be more than a quiet, unexplored crush. But I know it’s better this way. Better that my story doesn’t end, and my writing career with it.

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