Page 8 of Right Next Door (Stone Family #3)

Nicole

A fter my conversation with Ian, I can’t stop thinking about my tattoo.

The idea of getting one always seemed cool and sexy and not for me.

No one had ever teased me outright, but as the youngest sister of three very popular and athletic brothers, I’d learned early on that I didn’t fit in, and my ugly duckling phase lasted much longer than I would’ve liked.

By the time I was old enough for a tattoo, being a Plain Jane was so deeply ingrained in me, I never thought change was possible.

Not that a tattoo is a big change.

But at this moment in time, this small choice feels huge .

After closing up Chapter and Verse, I end up outside of Stone Ink at five after eight.

Peering through the window, I spy Ian and Jasper chatting in the front corner, both of them holding their cell phones, while Sloane finishes up with a client.

When Jasper heads toward the back, Ian raises his attention to the window, almost as if he senses I’m here.

He tips his head back, a gesture for me to enter, so I take a deep breath, set my shoulders, and walk inside the tattoo shop for the second time today.

Sloane does a double take but makes no other indication that she’s surprised.

Sloane and her kids are frequent patrons at the bookstore, so I’ve gotten to know her a little bit, and she’s great at hiding any and every emotion.

Something I’ve never mastered. Aunt Sue always said I was an open book, everything I thought played on my face.

Ian approaches me with an easy stride, and I hope he can’t tell how nervous I am. Although, after he sweeps his gaze over me, he gently curls his hand around my elbow as if I might run away, so he, too, can probably read me just fine.

“You all right? Want a drink or snack or anything?”

I shake my head. “I’m okay.”

He guides me over to his workstation, where, besides a big chair I assume is for customers, he has a stool, portable desk, and a small drawer cart, along with some floating shelves on the wall.

Each artist has a station with similar tools and products, but it’s easy to tell where each of them works.

Sloane has pictures and coloring pages from her kids, next to Cash’s space with a few plants on his shelves.

A skateboard is hanging on the wall in Jaybird’s space, while Jasper’s station is mostly bare, save a book.

Ian has a few stickers and framed photos, a snapshot of who he is as a person: a dad, a friend, a man with ties to the community, and a deep sense of loyalty.

I perch on the edge of the chair that he points to and says, “Get comfortable. You’re gonna be here a while.”

So I move back, attempting to relax, though my palms are already clammy.

He sits on his stool, facing me, his knees spread wide, his feet on either side of the chair. “Have you got any ideas about what you want?”

“I was thinking about a quote from Jane Austen.”

“Yeah?” He crosses his left arm over his torso and rests his right elbow on it, running his hand over his beard. It’s thick but trimmed short, the hair over his chin completely silver, while the rest is salt-and-pepper.

A totally inappropriate notion to tunnel my fingers into it enters my mind, but I immediately toss that idea out.

“You’re a big fan, right? Named the cat after a book or something?” he asks, his thick fingers doing exactly what I’d been thinking.

“Yeah.” Darcy is our store cat, a beautiful ragdoll who adores the attention from patrons and spends most of his days sunning himself in the front windows.

“From Pride and Prejudice ?” he guesses, and I nod. “What do you like about Jane Austen?”

It’s a question I’ve been asked multiple times, and my answer never changes.

“I like how she wrote about strong, intelligent women who were ahead of their time. They knew what they wanted and weren’t afraid to go after it, even if it went against societal norms.” I pause, my gaze drifting to the wall of tattoo designs.

“I guess I’ve always admired that about her characters.

They were brave in a way I never felt I could be. ”

“You’re being brave right now. Doing something you’ve been afraid to do.”

We both turn toward each other, and our gazes don’t just meet. They collide.

My breath catches in my throat, and I go warm all over but not from nerves. This… This is different.

Ian squints, eyes smoldering, nostrils flaring slightly, and this is exactly what I was talking about with him the other day.

Sparks .

He’s got this simmering tension below the surface. What’s so intimidating is how he seems as if he might erupt at any moment. I’m positive I wouldn’t withstand the heat.

“What quote are you thinking about?” he asks, and I nibble on my lip, telling myself to be as brave as he thinks I am.

“I will be mistress of myself.”

He likes my answer, his smile pure sex.

And I like him staring at me like this, even if I might liquefy into a puddle on the floor.

“Do you know what font you’d like or if you want any other details?”

“Flowers, maybe?”

“Don’t say it like that,” he orders with mock solemnity. “You’re the mistress of yourself. If you want flowers, tell me you want the fucking flowers.”

I nod a few times, my pulse hammering in my neck. “I want flowers. Wild flowers.”

“Good girl,” he murmurs, and I need to cross my legs to keep from lifting my dress, fanning my damp panties. “How about location?”

That part, I haven’t thought of yet. “Somewhere it’s not going to hurt a lot.”

Before he can reply, Sloane stalks over, looping a bag across her body. “I’m outta here.”

“You in tomorrow?” Ian asks over his shoulder.

She shakes her head. “I have an appointment with Micah.”

“Then I’ll see you later. Let me know if you need anything.”

“I will.” She offers him a ghost of a smile. Though I’m not best friends with the employees of Stone Ink, I know them well enough to recognize Ian is a father to them all, whether they’re related by blood or not.

Sloane glances at me. “See ya later, Nicole.”

“See you.”

Once she’s gone, leaving us alone, Ian brings his gaze back to me, and something in the air shifts. A tension. A charge.

I lick my lips, and his eyes follow the movement as he rolls his stool even closer. We’re practically breathing the same air.

“So,” he starts again, “you want it somewhere it’s going to hurt the least?”

I surreptitiously wipe my palms on my dress. “Is there such a place?”

He places his hand on my bare knee, his fingers stretching up under the cotton over my thighs.

“Everyone has different pain tolerances, but the best places are usually the fleshiest ones. If you’re tattooing over bone, that’s where you’re going to feel it the most.” He drags his fingertips back down over my kneecap, and goose bumps rise all over my skin.

He must feel it but doesn’t acknowledge it.

Instead, he wraps his fingers around the underside of my knee.

“For your first tattoo, I’d avoid your feet, ribs, or neck.

But once I’ve got you hooked, I’ll brand you wherever you want. ”

My mouth literally goes dry.

And he winks. He knows exactly what he’s doing.

I clear my throat. “How about my forearm?”

He takes both of my wrists in his hands and extends my arms out to him, slowly rotating them side to side, inspecting them. “You thinking inside or outside?”

“Inside.”

Again, he drags his index finger over my flesh, from my left elbow all the way down to my wrist, then back up to midway. “I think it’ll look really good horizontal. Do some long-stemmed flowers this way and then have the quote up here. What do you think?”

I nod, unable to form words.

With a squeeze to my hand, he stands to walk over to the counter, where he finds a thin binder and hands it to me when he returns. “You can look through here for examples of fonts. You might?—”

I don’t need the binder. I point to the framed phrase on the wall, elegant cursive written with thick strokes. Write your troubles in the sand and carve your blessings in stone.

“I want that font.”

When he sees where I’m pointing, he grunts a quiet, pleased sound.

“Can you do that?” I ask, and he nods slowly. I frown, confused. “What…? Why are you…?”

He turns to face me. “That’s my tattoo.”

I don’t understand. “What?”

“That’s my tattoo,” he repeats and lifts the hem of his shirt to reveal the thick slab of muscle that makes up his torso, along with the hair and colorful art lining his chest that narrows to his waist. So sexy.

But that’s not what he’s showing me, and I refocus on the inked words covering his upper right rib cage. That’s his tattoo. The exact thing he has stuck on his wall is carved into his skin.

Without thinking, I reach out and skate my fingers over it. This time, it’s his skin with goose bumps.

“I’m sorry,” I say immediately, but he shakes his head, slow to place his shirt back down.

“Don’t be.” Then he sits and gets to work, sketching something out in a notebook. “Do you want color?”

“I don’t think so.”

He nods absently, hand moving over paper. He pauses to reference another binder, flipping through until he finds pages of flowers and draws a few of them, delicate stems and vines, thin leaves, and different-sized petals. When he’s done, he shows it to me. “What do you want changed?”

“Nothing.”

He sets the notebook in my lap. “What do you want changed, Nicole?”

“Nothing.” I laugh. “I swear. I love it. It’s perfect.”

He lifts his brow, a stern dip to his chin. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.” He takes the notebook back, knocking it lightly against my shoulder as he stands.

“I’m going to make the stencil, and then we can get started.

If you need to use the bathroom, it’s down the hall on the left.

Help yourself to water in the front or the bowl of candy on the desk.

If you want something else, let me know. ”