Page 22 of Ink Me Three Times
And now that she’s in my orbit, it’s throwing me off balance in ways I haven’t felt in years.
I thought I was over it, overher, even before I knew her name.
But the moment she looked at me this morning, like she was just as thrown, just as wrecked...
Yeah.
Whatever I told myself?
Bullshit.
The door chimes before I can spiral any further.
Good. I need the distraction.
Tim straightens off the edge of my station and heads toward the front, throwing the rest of his sandwich in the trash on the way.
Ink & Iron’s hours are loose… clients by appointment, walk-ins welcome, regulars treated like family. Word travels fast around here, and today, an old friend is swinging through those doors.
"Mitchell fucking Everett," a voice drawls. "How’s it going?"
I don’t even have to look up.
I’d recognize that cocky twang anywhere.
Silas Grant.
Trouble wrapped in charm.
Every woman’s worst decision and every man’s bad influence, all in one smirking package.
"Youdidremember I’m booked in today, right?"
"Unfortunately," I say, finally glancing up.
He grins, all teeth and swagger, like he’s here to steal your girl and your dog and still get invited to Thanksgiving.
"You’re lucky I like your work," he says, already moving through the shop like he owns the place. "Otherwise I’d take my extremely valuable body elsewhere."
Tim snorts from behind the front desk. "Valuable to who?"
"To art," Silas says, pointing at him with mock offense. "And to women across the tri county area, thank you very much."
I wave him back toward my station. "Shirt off. Sit down. Shut up."
Silas claps his hands like I’ve just handed him a beer and a backstage pass. "You always know how to sweet talk me, Mitch."
He shrugs out of his flannel, tosses it on the hook like he’s done this a hundred times before, which he has, and settles into the chair with the kind of practiced ease only someone deeply comfortable in their own skin can manage.
I grab the stencil and the gloves, trying to push Ivy from my mind.
But she lingers anyway.
The quiet between us. Her fingers curling in my shirt. The way her lips had tasted like heat and desperation and something that still haunts me.
I blink it off, turn back to the task in front of me.
Focus.
