Page 6 of Church Girl
Glancing up at Chelle, I snort. “And yet, I don’t see you volunteering to babysit.”
Chelle raises her hand, studies her short, red-painted nails. “If you want me to cancel appointments so I can hang with my niece, then I’m all for it. But I don’t do that for free.”
“There’s something wrong with you,” I mutter.
She cackles, and a knock sounds at my office door. Unlike Chelle, the person on the other side waits until I invite them to enter.
“Yeah,” I call out.
A moment later, Malcolm, the front desk employee, opens the door. “Hey, you have a woman out here who says she has a nanny interview with you.”
“Aight. Here I come.”
Four minutes to spare.
Shoving back my chair, I stand and round the desk. Chelle rises, too, and follows me out of the room. I toss her a look over my shoulder, but she smiles. Shaking my head, I don’t tell her to mind the business that pays her. Not like she’s going to listen anyway.
We pass the open area with six large cubicles, where the murmur of voices and the whir of tattoo machines punctuate the air. I employ five tattoo artists, and each of them are damn good at what they do. Every one of them has a style they specialize in—Chelle is a beast at black-and-gray portraits, and not many can get with Zion when it comes to new school—and I’m thankful to have them in my shop. They’re the reason the schedule stays booked months out, and clients come from all over the country to King Tattoos to get ink.
I head down the hallway, reaching the open entrance that leads to the lobby. As soon as I pass through, my gaze falls on the woman standing at the front desk. She turns to look at me, and I frown. There has to be some mistake.
I’m supposed to be meeting Aaliyah Montgomery for the nanny position, not fucking Pollyanna. I let my gaze run over the short woman who looks like an escapee from a Disney movie. My scowl deepens. Okay, maybe she possesses long, thick, dark hair, thicker curves and a beautiful pecan complexion instead of blond pigtails, freckles and pale skin...
Aw, fuck. Correct that.
On closer inspection, actual freckles scatter across the bridge of her nose and upper cheekbones like cinnamon sprinkled across buttered toast.
Nope.
Innocence radiates from her. She wears it like the tattoos that cover my body—inked in and permanent. And it disturbs the hell out of me. All I know is it—she—has no business here. Not in my shop. Shit, not in Chicago. For her safety, she needs to return to whatever small town with singing birds and domestic-prone mice she came from.
“Hi.” A hesitant smile curves her mouth, and I pretend not to notice that those full, dick-tease lips don’t fit her angelic appearance. Those lips are all sin and destruction. “I’m Aaliyah Montgomery. Are you Von Howard?”
She extends her hand toward me, and I drop my gaze to it, staring. After a moment, she lowers her arm back to her side, and that smile trembles, but she holds on to it. Uncertainty flickers in her eyes. Eyes that remind me of the sweet and delicious toffee Gia and I get every time we visit Navy Pier.
Yeah, I’m being rude as fuck, but I need her gone. It’s a damn near primal urge to usher her out the front door and lock it behind her—an urge I can’t explain.
“Yeah, I’m Von.” I dip my chin, sliding my hands into my front pockets. “You’re here to interview for the nanny job?”
I already know the answer—I’ve read her email and résumé several times, and both include her name. Still, a tiny glimmer of hope rises that this is a mistake. That she’s supposed to be at the deli next door, interviewing there. Not a place that’s too rough, too coarse, too...much for her. And no, she wouldn’t be watching Gia here, but this is my world, one that I rule. And I reiterate, she doesn’t belong here.
“Yes,” she says, her smile brightening. Aaand she has dimples.Fuck. “I’m pleased to meet you, Mr. Howard. And thank you for the interview.”
“Von. And I wouldn’t thank me just yet.”
I turn, heading back the way I came, leaving her to follow. Hoping she doesn’t.
“Hi. Oh wow. Your tattoos are gorgeous,” Aaliyah says behind me, and for a second, I think she’s talking to me.
My chest tightens at the delight in her voice. Again, inexplicable. As is the pleasure that trickles through me before I shut that shit down. Delight, my ass. She seems more like the type to cross the street to avoid someone covered in ink than the kind to admire it.
I glance over my shoulder, the sharp retort ready. But then I notice her gaze fixed on Chelle, not me. And that’s not fucking disappointment prickling my skin. It’s not, goddammit.
It’s another mark against Aaliyah Montgomery.
“Thanks.” Chelle beams.Beams. My best friend is one of those people who needs to know you for six months before she even has a whole conversation with you. The only exception was Gia. But not many people can meet a Disney princess andnotmelt. Except me. I want no part of this. Of her. “Aaliyah, right? I’m Michelle. Most people call me Chelle.”
And by “most people” she means the five or six people she actually likes.
