Page 4 of A Heart On A Sleeve

two

Sam

The New Girl Next Door

“Order for Sam,” the barista at the Brewhouse calls from behind the busy counter.

I make my way around a couple of locals, smiling halfheartedly and avoiding eye contact.

The last thing I need this morning is a conversation about the weather or someone (the elderly Beatrice Bushnell) giving me their unsolicited advice on how to make my business more family friendly—when you’re covered in tattoos like I am, those are the two most common topics with a crowd like this. I hate both of them.

Wrapping my fingers around the steaming cup of black coffee, I head out the back, pushing the steel exit bar.

I make my way into the alley behind the row of businesses lining the west side of Mage Square.

There’s nothing but a few dumpsters, a stray cat, and a line of trees that disguise this alleyway from the cozy neighborhood behind it.

I take a deep breath and a long sip of my drink before turning toward my shop, thankful for a moment alone.

A few steps in, it dawns on me that this is my third cup, and while my first client of the day isn’t for a couple more hours, it’s not going to do much to steady my hand or allow me to get my stencils drawn up.

I shouldn’t have stopped for it, but it’s been a weird morning.

I was up early throwing weights around in the gym, hoping to get last night’s text from Bridget—my recently dumped little sister—out of my mind.

When that didn’t help relieve the urge I have to throttle her ex, I went for a ride.

The quick spin on my bike was supposed to clear my head, to ground me in the cool breeze coasting across my skin, to tamp down the anger and protectiveness coursing through my eldest-brother veins.

Instead, it led me to the center of Mage just in time to watch the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen all twisted up with a fancy dress around her head and white panties that covered nothing and everything at the same time, on display for all to see.

To be fair, I was the only creep that stopped to gawk.

I’m not sure anyone else even caught wind of the show, and part of me is thankful.

I can’t really say why—apart from the way the sight made my jeans feel entirely too tight behind my zipper and sent my heart racing wildly.

I’d shamed myself for being gross and quickly moved on, but then when I finally got my mind to a place of acceptable denial, Mom called and reminded me to pick up the book she had Beau restore.

Beau is an old family friend, and he’s often polishing up some random find that my mom digs out of the attic.

We assist him in keeping his shop in working order and help him with moving boxes from time to time—working for Beau is an even exchange when you consider my mother’s ability to lay on the Irish Catholic guilt.

Mabel is our matriarch, the mother everyone else wishes they had.

My siblings and I love her endlessly, but she has an uncanny ability to insert herself into all kinds of situations, routinely finding tasks for us to do.

Supporting Beau is the easiest of those tasks, no doubt.

Come to think of it, she probably knew that I’d stopped and stared at the new beauty and sent me into Black Kettle on purpose.

My siblings joke that she has magical powers since she comes from a long lineage dating back to the founders of our town.

It’s bullshit just like every other legend or tale—there’s no such thing as magic.

It’s more so that the woman has eyes and ears everywhere; nothing happens in Mage Hollow without Mabel O’Reilly knowing about it.

I need to let it go, but I keep thinking about the way Olive called me sir like it was the most natural thing in the world.

It pissed me off and turned me on. On the outside, Olive is the total package.

But there’s something about her demeanor that makes me doubt that what I feel is anything more than physical attraction.

It might be the way she wears her confidence like a suit of armor, like she’s practiced keeping her poise at all costs.

Just when I thought I had her rattled enough to react, she’d blush, then snap right back into smooth Southern belle mode.

I’m not used to anything or anyone being that polished.

The new girl couldn’t be more different from me—so why does she make my heart race and my stomach flip simply from sharing the same air?

There’s never been a shortage of women to choose from in my life, but with this one, my fingers still itch from the desire I had to wrap them around her long strawberry blonde locks.

My skin flushes at the memory of her cheeks turning a dusty pink when I spoke to her.

I should have been nicer, but the urge to run my thumb along the freckles dotting the bridge of her nose was as all-consuming as the peculiar need I felt to protect her.

Max, my brother, would say I have a savior complex.

And that she’s under my skin because I caught her in a vulnerable moment.

Maybe that’s true, but as much as a part of me wouldn’t mind being her knight in shining armor, I couldn’t flirt when she was so clearly riding the line of prim and proper and I’m not.

Pulling myself from my thoughts, I slide my key into the lock and let myself into my shop, Eerie Ink.

I started tattooing when I was eighteen, a side gig while playing hockey for the local AHL team.

But when I realized six years ago that I wasn’t ever going to get called up to play at the next level, and that aging out is real, the art of marking skin became my passion.

I sip my coffee, scanning my appointment book.

I have a few clients scheduled this afternoon, and I need to draw Jimmy’s latest addition on transfer paper so I don’t get behind.

Taking a seat at my desk, I pull open the drawer and snag a few supplies to get started when the front door jingles.

The only people with keys are my sisters and my mom, so it has to be one of them.

I take a deep breath and wait patiently to see who’s coming to give me hell today.

Bridget pops her head in the doorway of my office. “Hey, Sammy . . .” she says, a shit-eating grin on her face. “Is it just me or did an angel get dropped into Black Kettle Bindery out of nowhere this morning?” How the fuck does she already know?

I take another sip of my coffee, ignoring her and beginning to draw. I make three unsteady lines before Bridget plops down on the high-back leather chair in the corner of my office. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

She laughs, kicking her feet up over the arm of the chair and pushing her head into the crook of the black leather. “Yes, you do. You’re a terrible liar.” Bridget narrows her eyes at me. “What do you know, and what aren’t you telling me?”

“I don’t know anything.” I shake my head and try to focus on the task at hand. “Olive is the new girl Beau hired,” I mutter under my breath.

“I don’t know anything, Bridget, just her name and where she works,” my sister mocks. I look at her from across my desk, flattening my lips into a thin line. She holds her hands up in surrender. “I’m just saying, how the hell do you already know her name?”

Before I can open my mouth to answer, her eyes get that twinkle, and she shoots me a knowing look.

“Mabel,” we say in unison. Bridget tumbles into another bout of laughter, and I shake my head.

Leave it to our mother to already be up in the new girl’s business not five seconds after she skips into town.

“So, you gonna tell me about how our mother put you in the same room as her, or are we going to pretend that I missed the way your voice went up an octave when you said Olive?”

I pull in a breath, slowly releasing it and trying to play it cool. “Had to pick this up.” I point to the carefully wrapped book that I picked up from Black Kettle.

“Of course, Mom would use one of her random attic finds as a tool for setting you up with your next girlfriend.” Bridget shakes her head, seemingly in disbelief. “You know, sometimes I don’t know how she does it.”

“She’s a busy body.”

“Maybe it’s magic.”

I suck my teeth, practically hissing at the words.

“Let’s not get carried away, Bridg. We both know magic isn’t real, and she’s not my next girlfriend.

Olive is way too proper for me. I doubt she’s ever even stepped foot in a tattoo shop.

Not interested. She’s more Max’s type anyway,” I lie, something I strictly avoid, and a lump hits the back of my throat as a result.

I don’t even know her well enough to determine if she is or isn’t a match for anyone, but since the moment I saw her, I wanted her for myself, not my baby brother.

I’ve never believed in love at first sight or that magical connection people reference, but something happened when I saw her this morning.

It’s like my brain rewired itself, and now after one flashing (which she handled like a champ) and a three-minute conversation, she’s all I can think about. It’s unsettling.

Bridget stares at me with her mouth hanging open. “You’re so full of shit it’s not even funny. I can just picture it now, you calling Mom and encouraging her to set Max up with Beau’s new beauty. What’s she like anyway?”

She’s not wrong, but the whole thing is so fucking weird.

I’m not like this. I don’t fall for anyone, even if deep down I want to find my soulmate, to have that profound and unwavering love that my parents have shared for more than thirty years.

“Uh, she’s Southern and easy to rile up, but it’s also like she stepped right out of the country club.

Didn’t really learn much about her.” I shrug and resume drawing.

Bridget shifts in the chair, putting her hands on her knees and leaning forward. “A debutant, really? Interesting. I wonder what she’s doing in Mage Hollow.” She lifts one eyebrow. I know she’s pushing me. Bridget and I are the closest in age in our family, and she’s always been able to read me.

I drain the rest of my coffee, throwing the empty cup in the bin that sits under my desk. “Look, I know you’re fishing. It was a brief conversation, nothing to tell. How are you holding up? You never texted me back last night.” I level her with a look, changing the subject.

“Mmmk, big brother. We’ll see.” She stands and moves toward the door. “But don’t forget that Mom knows everything, and I can tell from your face that you’re still picturing her panties.”

With that she leaves my office, cackling the whole way to the front door, completely disregarding my question about her breakup.

Last night it was the end of the world, and today we are apparently avoiding it all together.

It isn’t until I hear the familiar jingle and the shop door closing behind her that I realize I never mentioned the flashing. God damn it, Mabel!

“Make sure you clean this with antibacterial soap a couple of times a day, then put this on it after so it stays moist,” I say, handing Bill a tube of tattoo jelly.

I just wrapped up a traditional piece on his forearm, a horseshoe accented with gold and red.

It’s a cool piece, but I know from experience he’s not the best at keeping things clean.

I’ve learned through years of practice that tattoos with fine details will look like shit if they aren’t cared for properly.

It doesn’t matter how good I am or how precise the lines are.

The healing process is critical. My best clients take it seriously, and the ones who don’t inevitably return for multiple fixes.

I should be grateful for the extra cash, but it’s more important to me that they have a quality result.

I finish ringing up Bill, my last appointment of the day, and he makes his way toward the door, stopping next to the window. “Holy shit, who the fuck is that?” he asks, staring at someone across the street.

I move so that I can see around him and am once again paralyzed by her beauty.

Every bit of her is stunning. From the blue-and-white dress she’s wearing, to her long strawberry blonde hair that’s swaying in the breeze.

Olive looks like she stepped off the pages of a magazine and landed right on my doorstep.

“That’s, uh—she’s new in town,” I mumble. Shaking my head in an attempt to rattle the thoughts of her out of my brain.

Bill sighs heavily. “She’s going to give everyone in this town a run for their money.

” His assessment makes me chuckle a little.

He’s not wrong, there is something magnetic about her.

I can’t help but wonder, like Bridget, why she would even come to Mage.

What could have been so appealing about this place that she would willingly work for Beau?

I clap Bill on the shoulder a little too hard. “You better get home to Tracy before word gets back that you were staring at the new girl.”

He turns and looks at me, a slow understanding seeming to sink into his features. “Don’t worry, Sam. I’m sure she has a thing for guys with tattoos,” he says sarcastically.

And that’s just it, he’s probably right.

It’s not that ink in your skin makes you an immediate bad boy, it’s more that other people assume that’s true.

I could be the most religious, Bible-toting, saves-kittens-from-trees kind of guy, and it wouldn’t change the way people like Beatrice Bushnell, and maybe Olive, see me.