Prologue

Savannah

Los Angeles, California

There is not enough booze in all the world to help me survive this.

Twenty-seven men. One reality TV dating show.

And me.

The bachelorette.

America’s so-called “sweetheart.”

The girl most likely to end up facedown before the night is over, if the contestants I’ve already met are any indication of how this hot mess express is going to go. First there was the guy dressed in a dinosaur onesie. Then another who dropped to one knee, a Ring Pop clutched in hand, for an impromptu proposal. (I let him down gently, then discreetly threw the cherry-flavored candy in a nearby bush.) And, to round up ’em all up, the last man wheeled out of the limo in a pair of lime-green roller blades . . . only to promptly wipe out on the cobblestoned driveway.

His arms pinwheeled wildly.

I launched to the side but couldn’t escape his grasping hands.

One second my red strapless dress was looking modestly sexy, and in the next?

Nip slip, y’all.

Nipple. Slip.

Only two hours in, and I’ve already managed to surpass every worst-case scenario I’ve imagined since being told Put A Ring On It would be my new reality.

Yay me.

Cheeks burning with the never-to-be-forgotten memory of flashing the production crew, Mr. Roller Blade Man himself and, possibly, even the universe at large—if the editors don’t do some major snipping to the final footage, that is—I skip the champagne flute and grab the bottle off the table instead. The red ribbon, wound around the glass neck, tangles with my fingers as I dramatically salute the empty dressing room.

“Bottom’s up,” I mutter under my breath, then toss back a swig of the bubbly. My eyes water and my chest inflates, and, you know, I’m not much of a drinker, but now seems like a good enough time to start as any.

The good news: as far as first nights go, I’m on the homestretch.

Only five more guys to meet.

It’ll be fine. I’ll be fine. So what if my heart hasn’t fluttered with excitement tonight? Not every relationship kicks off with metaphorical fireworks. Hell, look at my parents; sometimes I’m not even convinced they like each other, let alone married for love. And, really, so what if I flashed everyone and their mother within the first few hours of filming?

A nervous giggle bubbles to the surface.

Yeah, I’m not fooling anyone. More champagne is definitely in order.

I guzzle it down, only to freeze mid-gulp when the dressing room door flies open and rebounds off the wall with a heavy thud.

Panicked, my gaze tracks the woman storming inside. One of the producers, I think. Rocking an official-looking headset and a pinched expression, she might as well be yanking along the accompanying cameraman by a leash, from the way he trails after her like an obedient puppy.

I sit up tall. “I was told I could have a few minutes before meeting the last group of guys.” A few more minutes to remind myself—yet again—that contracts have been signed, promises have been made, and I’m not the sort of person who exits stage right when people are depending on me. Even if I have just managed to flash fifty-or-so people my naked chest.

Never let it be said that I’m not a trooper.

The producer slides me an icy stare. “Your few minutes are up.” Her brown hair is a tangled mess on the top of her head, and whereas I’m on dress number two for the night (a gold sequined number that makes me feel like a sausage stuffed into inflexible casing), she’s decked out in a T-shirt, ripped jeans, and an old pair of Vans. The plastic ID hanging around her neck reads Matilda Houghton. “We need a testimonial.”

With dread pricking my skin, I set the champagne down. “Right now?”

“Yup.” The P pops in time with her smacking a piece of gum in her mouth. “No one hired you to just sit around and look pretty.” Jerking a thumb toward the cameraman, she follows up with a chop-chop snap of her fingers. “C’mon, first impressions of the contestants you’ve met so far. Smile big now.”

I have approximately two-point-five seconds to prepare myself.

Blinding light beams into my face from the bulb fixed to the top of the camera.

A bead of sweat trickles down my spine.

Like a cornered animal, I dart my gaze from right to left, left to right. Think. Think! “The guys are—”

“Specific names, please,” she cuts off, somehow managing to look both aggravated and bored, all at once. “Who stood out to you?”

Not. A. Single. Soul.

Is that pathetic? So far, I’ve met twenty-two guys. Accountants and Hollywood stunt doubles and even a former NFL player, and my stupid heart has not quickened for any of them. Objectively, I know they’re a good-looking group of men. Better than good-looking, honestly. Half of them could be models, and I . . . I can’t recall any of their names.

I’m not the right bachelorette.

It’s obvious to me, even if it isn’t yet obvious to everyone else, and it’s only a matter of time before the guys realize that my heart isn’t locked and loaded for this all-too-public journey. Any other woman would be thrilled to be in my position. Any other woman would be dying to spend their days flirting with twenty-seven sexy strangers.

Any other woman but me.

“I, uh . . .” I squint, trying to summon visuals of the men to mind. Dinosaur Onesie. Ring Pop Man. NippleGate Orchestrator. Stiffening my shoulders against a residual shudder of horror, I stare directly into the camera and blurt out, “I’ve always loved Jurassic Park.”

Matilda rolls her wrist in a keep-going gesture.

I force a strained smile. When Matilda slices a finger across her throat—like she’s worried about me terrifying viewers all across America—I shake out the nerves by wiggling my toes in my shoes. Dial the smile down some. “Matthew”—Richard? Who the hell knows at this point—“seemed fun. It’s, uh, nice to know that we might have something in common.” The last time I watched Jurassic Park, I was in the seventh grade and still wore a hot-pink mouth guard to bed every night. “That’s all I could hope for, coming on the show. To meet someone who matches me, inside and out. Common interests. Shared dreams.”

Any hope I have that my answer might satisfy Matilda goes out the window when she nods, then plants a hand on my shoulder to keep me seated when I start to rise. My ass, swathed in Spanx and sequins and skin-clinging fabric, collapses with enough force that the wooden seat protests with a squeal.

Nonplussed, Matilda retreats to the cameraman’s side. “If your dream man could step out of that limo tonight, what would he look like?”

It feels like a trick question.

But for the first time all night, my heart gives an erratic thump-thump-thump. I despise the excitement currently singing in my veins. Despise it as much as I crave it. Because the truth is: I never wanted to be Put A Ring On It’s bachelorette. No, the honor was meant to belong to my younger sister, Amelie. She’d submitted the first audition tape. She’d been on the hunt to live it up on reality TV and date twenty-seven men after breaking up with . . . him.

Ruthlessly, I shove the excitement away, sticking it in the Bad Thoughts box that I refuse to dwell on. Because thinking of him—and every tiny tattoo he’s inked on my skin in the dead of night over the last year—does nothing but make me wish for something that can never, ever be.

End of the day, it doesn’t matter who my dream man is.

I’m on this show because the host and creator, Joe Devonsson, came across Amelie’s audition, only to stumble across a separate application my mother submitted online for me. A submission, I’d like to add, that she never once told me about until Devonsson’s voice was in my ear, hollering through the phone, as he boasted about all the merits of having the Rose sisters battle it out for a suitor on TV. He thought it would make for excellent audience ratings, a way to edge out the longstanding The Bachelor franchise. And then there are my parents—both high society New Orleanians—who thought Put A Ring On It would be an “utter delight.” A way to harken back to the glittering world of debutante balls, various men vying for the affections of a woman, and, as always, a way to get more eyes on the family business.

Except that I didn’t come here for any of that. I came here for Amelie.

Because everything I’ve done in life, I’ve done for my little sister. I’ve subjected myself to the special brand of tough love that my parents dole out in spades, all so she could take off to California and then Hawaii and then, finally, to Florida. I’ve glued myself to the trajectory laid out for me since birth, so that my parents’ attention would be otherwise preoccupied when Amelie shaved her dark hair down to her skull and pierced her nose and strutted around wearing clothes that left her bronze skin nearly bare because she’s always been one to express her moods through her wardrobe.

I gave my parents all of me so my sister could keep all of her.

Which was great and all—until she backed out of the show two weeks ago, citing a business opportunity in Europe that she could not pass up, and now I’m here.

Alone.

Sticky with sweat and nerves.

And dreaming of a man who once belonged to my sister while I’m being courted by twenty-seven other guys.

Not even free champagne can fix this mess.

Clearing my throat, I finally answer: “He’d look like a man who could put up with my family’s special brand of crazy.”

It’s a witty response, a deflective one, too, considering all the heartache that’s gone on behind the scenes in the last few weeks, but Matilda and the camera guy must be ready to hit the cocktails themselves because after a few more surface-level questions, I’m being shuffled back down the winding staircase and out through one of the side doors. The crisp air teases my skin with goose bumps.

“Rock ‘n’ roll time, folks!” Joe Devonsson bellows, off to my right. “Let’s do this—no more crazy shit, you hear me? If I see one more man come out of that limo wearing a ridiculous costume, I’m going to fucking lose my mind.”

You can say that again.

With feet that feel heavy like iron anvils, I trudge to my marked spot on the circular driveway. The grand mansion is to my back, the waiting limo to my front. I have absolutely zero expectations that the next five guys will rev my engine, so to speak, but Matilda’s question continues to nag me: If your dream man could step out of that limo, what would he look like?

Temptation. The word slips through my mind and clings fiercely. My dream man would look like temptation.

“Savannah, you ready?”

After a quick thumbs up to Joe, I pin a serene smile in place like the debutante I once was.

Press my shoulders back.

Pray with every bit of my soul that even if the next guy to climb out of that limo isn’t my dream man, hopefully he’ll be someone I find attractive—or, at the very least, someone who will do a damn good job of convincing me that although I don’t want to be on a dating show, I made the right decision in honoring my contract by showing up.

The glossy limo door swings open and a pair of black-leather dress shoes hit the stone driveway. One foot, then the other, and maybe I’m crazy or already tipsy on too much champagne, but my stomach dips with anticipation.

Begrudging anticipation, but anticipation nonetheless.

Black slacks appear, and I curse the set director for placing me near the walkway leading up to the mansion. Case in point: my view is nothing but limbs. But yeah, this guy—whoever he is—he’s got great legs. Thick thighs that strain the fabric of his pants. Tall-looking, too. Definitely taller than I am.

Wanting a better look, I shift up onto my tiptoes, the rasp of my sequined dress against the cobblestones echoing loudly in my ears.

Tattooed hands are revealed next. Thick, masculine fingers. A palm that could easily span the width of my back, tugging me close for a romantic dance, or a hot kiss, or a gravelly whisper in my ear.

I never cared for tattoos, not before him. Not before I watched him work diligently on every person who walked into his parlor. Not before I sat on that flat table, aware that I was rebelling in a way that I never had before, and felt the weight of his big hands coasting over my skin to mark me with black, irreversible ink.

I swallow hard and remind myself that Los Angeles is thousands of miles away from New Orleans.

Pull yourself together, Rose.

And maybe I would have been able to, if the man exiting the limo hadn’t stepped into the soft light just then and thrown my already teetering world straight into the abyss of chaos.

My dream man.

In the span of a heartbeat, I soak in his familiar face. The dark, tousled hair. The dark, close-shaven beard. The dark, bottomless eyes that always seem to anticipate my every move—even when I wish he couldn’t read me at all. The tattoos that creep up to the collar of his black suit, and cling to the base of his thick throat.

I’m accustomed to seeing him in jeans and flannel shirts but decked out in a tailored, black suit like he is now . . . God, he looks raw.

Savage.

Powerful.

What is he doing here?

Instinctively, I step back—off the X taped to the stone beneath my feet and away from the man who isn’t supposed to be anywhere but in his tattoo shop on Bourbon Street.

Certainly not here. With me.

Amelie.

My sister’s face flashes in my mind’s eye and I wrangle my rapidly beating heart into submission, pushing the traitorous thing down until the pounding in my ears is nothing but ambivalent white noise.

He doesn’t heed the shock that’s no doubt kicked my placid smile to the curb.

No.

Without taking those glittering black eyes off me, he ambles close, all loose limbs and simmering confidence, until we’re breathing the same air, taking up the same space, existing in the same moment.

Temptation.

Goddamn temptation.

“Give me your hand.”

It’s all he says but spoken in that rough New Orleans drawl of his, it’s both a request and a command all at once.

Flustered, my gaze shoots over to the crew, to all the cameras trained in our direction. The lights are damn near blinding but there’s no mistaking the way Joe sits on the literal edge of his seat, looking enraptured by the scene unfolding before him.

One thing is clear: no one is going to help me out of this.

It didn’t occur to me until just now how very public this experience will be. And I’m no idiot: Joe Devonsson will gleefully air this moment all over America in just a few short months, rubbing his hands together in anticipation of skyrocketing ratings. Then everyone will know, just by looking at my face, that I feel like I’ve been pummeled by an eighteen-wheeler.

I lower my voice, my hands balled into tight fists down by my sides to keep them from visibly trembling. “You shouldn’t be here.”

His sharp jaw clenches tight. “I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.”

I’m short on breath. I want to blame it on the too-tight dress. I want to blame it on the California weather, but it’s late November and the air is cool, for once, without even a hint of humidity. I want to blame my lightheadedness on anything but the man standing a hand’s width away, looking like the Prince of Darkness.

For a little over a year now, our relationship has been casual. Friends, no matter how often I found myself looking at him a little too long or secretly admiring the wide breadth of his shoulders or finding reasons to meet up with him that shouldn’t have existed after he’d dated Amelie.

And now he’s here.

Standing less than two feet away and stealing all my damn air.

My chin angles north with false bravado. “You can’t stay.”

Catching me completely off guard, he steps in close, demolishing the distance between us, and hooks an inked finger under my chin. My chest caves with need, lust, awareness. Although I’ll never admit it out loud, my knees quiver, too. Quiver! Like I’m some sort of teenage girl faced with her first crush, instead of a thirty-four-year-old woman who knows her own mind and manages thirteen restaurants all over New Orleans.

I should move away. Shove him back. Demand that the producers kick him off the premises.

He doesn’t give me the chance to do any of those things.

Moving methodically, like he’s expecting me to scramble backward, he lowers his head and grazes his cheek against mine. I feel the bristles of his beard, the softness of his lips as they find the shell of my ear. His hand leaves my chin to clasp the back of my neck with a familiarity that reaches into my soul and twists, hard.

“No more running, Rose.” The warmth of his breath elicits a shiver down my spine, my surname sounding like nothing less than a forbidden endearment dripping off his tongue. “Give me a chance. Give us a chance.”

But there are no chances, not for us.

He lets me go and it’s a miracle I remain standing on my own two feet, my legs feel so weak. A small smile plays on his full lips—a mouth I’ve never once kissed—before he turns away, heading up the walkway to the mansion.

My fingers curl, nails biting sharply into my palm.

He’s my kryptonite. My weakness. And the one man who is decidedly off-limits to me—forever.

This . . . flirtation that we have going on? It has to end.

Tonight.

Ignoring the cameras and the knowledge that one day this moment will broadcast all over the country, I squeeze my eyes and make a decision: I need to let him go. I need to let him go and move on and let myself fall in love . . .

With someone who isn’t Owen Harvey.

Chapter One

Owen

New Orleans, Louisiana

Seven Months Later

“He had a heart attack mid-coitus.”

Disregarding the fact that I’ve asked her to keep still five times now—or face the wrath of my tattoo machine going rogue—Shirley Hamilton glances over her shoulder and gives me the look.

One I know way too well.

The lowered brows.

The pursed mouth.

The last time Shirley looked at me like that, I was inking a unicorn on her ankle for her seventy-second birthday. She’d been so invested in her story about her friend from bingo doing “the drugs” that she’d clipped me in the face with her jittery elbow and I came this close to screwing up her tattoo.

That was three years ago.

Like she’s got a homing beacon tucked away somewhere in that massive purse of hers, Shirley returns every year on her birthday, promptly at noon. And she always comes with a bonkers story that could put even Jerry Springer to shame.

At this point, it’s almost tradition.

“Don’t move,” I warn again, returning to the tiny constellation of stars she asked for on her right shoulder blade. One for each one of her grandkids. Four more to go.

Either she left her hearing aids at home or Shirley doesn’t give a rat’s ass that I’m working. She rolls her eyes, shakes out her curly hair, and mutters, “You ever hear of such a thing? Nearly entering the pearly gates of heaven at a critical time like that?”

When I opened Inked on Bourbon almost ten years ago, I never thought that I’d be offering ink with a sprinkle of unsanctioned therapy on the side. I expected the tourists who wander into the parlor, still drunk from the Hand Grenades they slurped down out on Bourbon Street. Hell, I even expected the constant requests for delicate butterfly tattoos and Celtic knot armbands, and yeah, once in a while, I knew I’d get some spectacular pieces done for true ink enthusiasts.

But playing Dr. Phil twenty-four-seven?

Never even occurred to me—which seems somewhat problematic considering that I’m a bit of a broody bastard. I leave the do-good, charismatic vibes to my twin, Gage, and his wife, Lizzie, both of whom work part-time shifts here at Inked whenever they can. Though with Lizzie about to pop out a kid, I’ll probably need to start moving my apprentices into more permanent positions sooner rather than later.

Aware that Shirley is waiting for a response, I keep my gaze locked on the second star when I answer, “Can’t say that I have.”

“Of course not. You’re a strapping young man, Owen. Big and tall and brawny—anyway.” She blows out a heavy breath. “The way Peggy told the story, there he was, carrying out God’s work, when bam! Couldn’t breathe.”

I cock a brow. “You sure he was havin’ a heart attack? Might’ve just came.”

Shirley giggles like I’m some kind of womanizer, which couldn’t be further from the truth. “His lips turned blue.”

“Ah. Definitely a heart attack, then.” I pause for effect, just because I know Shirley gets her rocks off on a spot of crazy gossip. At the end of the day, Inked on Bourbon is a business—if the woman wants to talk smack about her friends, I can definitely scrape together my bedside manners for another thirty minutes and make it happen. Customer satisfaction guaranteed. I offer her a teasing grin. “You think he got her off first? One last hurrah before he bit the bullet?”

“Oh, Owen. You are so bad.”

Shirley’s thin shoulders shake with silent laughter, and I raise the needle off her skin before she ends up looking like she’s undergone a Magic Marker experiment at the local pre-school.

Leaning back on my stool, I snag a fresh paper towel off my workstation and run it over her shoulder blade. Halfway done. Six little stars shouldn’t even take more than twenty or thirty minutes, but I do what I can to make Shirley’s birthday somewhat memorable, like always booking her appointment for an hour and a half, so she has plenty of time to talk my ear off.

Last year I picked up red velvet cake—her favorite.

Today, I grabbed a few cannoli from my favorite bakery over on Royal Street, just a block away. Shirley’s a widow, her kids have fled the roost and live in different states, and maybe it makes me a total sap, but I hate the idea of the woman sitting alone in her house while the world around her continues on without a second glance.

In that, Shirley and I might as well be soul mates.

Difference is, of course, Shirley’s alone because her offspring are doing their own thing and I’m alone by choice.

Only because you let her push you away.

My fingers flex around the towel, which I sharply fling into the nearby trashcan.

Nah, there was no letting involved when it came to Savannah Rose sending me packing from California. She made her decision. I walked away. She opted to pursue other interests, and I sure as fuck don’t beg anyone for anything. Not even when being sent home from that ridiculous TV show meant staggering into the airport so wasted that I’d been forced to wait another twenty-four hours before any of the flight attendants even let me look at a plane ticket.

So, yeah, it was rough.

Painful, my brain supplies helpfully like the asshole it is, it was brutally painful.

If I have to guess, I’m hedging my bets that Savannah is engaged by now. Which is good. I hope some douchebag actually put a ring on it because then I can move on. No more hoping she might waltz into my parlor, grief written all over her face when she begs me for another chance after all these months of radio silence. No more purposely skipping over Channel 6 whenever Put A Ring On It airs on Wednesday evenings. No more pining for a woman who—

Crack!

My head snaps to the left, to the shared wall between Inked and the kitschy souvenir shop next door, just as the antique barge board gives way and a sledgehammer bursts through.

Bursts through. As in, I’m staring at a set of fingers currently trying to wrangle the massive tool back through the concave hole about four feet off the ground.

Christ.

“Shit!” shouts a panicked voice from the other side of the wall. “I’m so getting fired for this.”

Shirley darts a concerned look my way. “Maybe I should come back tomorrow?”

“And miss the present I bought you? Not happening.” I push off the stool, letting it roll to the side as I rise to my full height. I strip off my latex gloves and toss them in the garbage. “Plus, don’t think I’m lettin’ you leave without filling me in on whether or not Peggy’s husband died by orgasm.”

“He didn’t. Die, that is.”

“Huh. Looks like silver linings do exist.”

“But he’s not allowed to have sex for a while,” Shirley tells me, watching avidly as I approach the shared wall. I wrap a hand around the sledgehammer and give it a good tug. It comes loose easily, and when I peek through the hole, I see nothing but bright lights and hear nothing but four-letter curse words. “You know,” my client adds, “because of his heart and all.”

“Hey, you win some, you lose some.”

Shirley laughs again, and when I turn back to her, I see her give a little shrug. “Maybe I could watch some TV while I wait?” Her eyes soften with hope. “You know I love me some Judge Judy.”

“Remote’s on the receptionist’s desk.” I jerk my chin toward the front. “Have at it.”

“And if anyone comes by looking for you?”

Aside from potential walk-ins looking for a spur-of-the-moment tattoo, no one is coming by unannounced. Gage is working a beat, Lizzie is filming some makeup video for her YouTube channel, and aside from the two of them, it’s not like I get a lot of random visitors. I swing the sledgehammer in an arc. “Tell them you’ve buried my body in the courtyard and stolen all of the goods.”

Giggling, Shirley practically sashays around me to pluck the TV remote off the front desk while I head for the door. Knowing her, she’ll be so immersed in the world of Judge Judy, she’ll forget that she’s even waiting.

Stepping out onto Bourbon, I’m immediately assaulted by the clip-clop of horse hooves, the hollering for Mardi Gras beads—even though it’s June—from up on the second-floor balconies, and a scent that my twin once dubbed eau de French Quarter.

Sewage. Booze. Vomit. Humidity.

It’s a special fragrance that speaks to the soul and reminds me of my later teenage years, when Gage and I used to sneak into the strip clubs with our fake IDs and order rounds of shots like we were high rollers.

Now, Gage is a cop for the NOPD’s Special Operatives Division, and I—well, the last time I got drunk down here in the Quarter—or, anywhere, really—was the day I arrived back in town from my one and only trip out to the West Coast.

Because clearly my last night in LA wasn’t enough to erase the burn of Savannah’s rejection.

Resting the sledgehammer’s wooden handle on my shoulder, I nod to one of the street performers who always hits up this intersection, then cut left. The glass windows of the storefront next to Inked are completely blacked out.

I try the door with a jiggle of the handle, and Lady Luck must be on my side because it swings open without issue.

Option Two would have been to use the sledgehammer.

One glance is all I need to know that someone is doing some major rehab. Gone are the walls featuring Cajun spices and Voodoo dolls. The shelves of T-shirts, highlighting punny New Orleans phrases, have also disappeared, along with the alligator heads that once sat by the cash register. Instead, the floors are stripped down to the concrete slab and the walls are bare of paint and stucco to reveal the fragile, original, nineteenth-century brick-between-post foundation.

The touristy shop that routinely sent me customers every night is no more.

Damn.

How the hell did I miss this place being sold?

At the sound of activity coming from down the short hallway, my ears perk up and I follow the voices:

“Are we fucked?”

“No, dimwit. We’re not fucked. We just have to fix the damn thing before the boss finds out, which means we’re in the clear. You know they never come down here on Tuesdays.”

“You know what makes Tuesdays my favorite? Tacos. Titties. Not exactly in that order but I’ll take what I can—”

“For the love of God, someone please shut him up.”

The end of the hall yields to a large room, and I spot a group of construction workers standing around the hole that’s an even match for the one on my side of the wall.

Letting the sledgehammer’s weight fall from my shoulder, I swoop it up so that it’s standing vertical, the base still clutched in my palm. “Y’all lookin’ for this?”

As one, they all turn in my direction.

I’m enough of a people watcher that I immediately notice a short-ish dude, who’s wearing a Saints T-shirt, blanch at the sight of me. Kid doesn’t even look old enough to grow facial hair, let alone work a full-time gig. Either way, he looks guilty as hell.

A fact he confirms a second later when he mutters, “Shit,” like he’s been caught red-handed by a teacher for cheating on a test.

The beefy guy behind him bops Shortie on the head, then steps around him. “Shut it,” he grunts out of the corner of his mouth to the kid. He casts his attention to me, all cordial-looking. “Hey, man. You must be from next door.”

Good deductive reasoning skills on this one. The sledgehammer had to have been a dead giveaway.

I dip my chin. “I own the place.”

“Double shit,” Shortie utters, and if I’m not mistaken, his voice sounds like a perfect match for Tacos-and-Titties Lover. He scrubs a hand through his messy hair. “Listen, it’s our first day on the job and these assholes shared this video with me and I lost control. But if you’d seen it, you would’ve messed up too. Tits, bare tits.” He makes a show of cupping a giant pair of knockers in front of him, going so far as to tweak the nonexistent nipples. “From a club up the block—”

His buddy cuffs him on the back of the head, a little harder this time. “Kurt, dude. What the fuck?”

Kurt lets out a frazzled breath. “Did I say too much? I probably said too much.”

I don’t know whether to laugh at the kid or side with his friend. Something tells me that it’s not just Shortie’s first day on this job site but on any job site. Kid is about to be in for a rude wakeup call, I bet.

“Accidents happen,” I say evenly.

I’m sure as shit not going to touch the whole video topic with a ten-foot pole. I spent my fair share of nights at those same titty bars once upon a time. At almost thirty-seven, though, that’s not the sort of entertainment I need to have a good time. Sometime in the last decade, the strip clubs lost their luster. Maybe I’m getting old or maybe it’s because now I actually know the women who’re working their asses off to earn a living. They’re not nameless faces when you work in the Quarter and see them every night in passing.

“But I’m still gonna need to talk to y’all’s boss.” I set the sledgehammer down, poised against the wall. “They in?”

“She,” the beefy one says, wincing. “The boss is a she.”

“She’s not in though,” Kurt pipes up. “Handles everything through email. So far, at least, since she’s been out of the country. I hear she’s pretty though. That’s what Chad said. He’s done work for the family before.”

“Dude,” mutters another guy, this one in the back of the pack, “d’you have to say everything that goes through your head?”

“Honesty is the best policy.” Kurt elbows his friend in the side. “Ain’t that right, Chad?”

I don’t know how it’s possible, but these dudes might have Shirley beat when it comes to gossiping. And that’s saying a lot, considering the woman only shows up to bingo so she can get the 411 on the elderly community in her neighborhood.

Give me the strength to not punch Tweedle Dum right in the mug. Exasperated, I pass a hand over my jaw. “I’ll take a phone number.”

Five sets of horrified gazes swing in my direction.

Chad’s the first one to speak. “We can fix it, man. Tomorrow—first thing. No need to get the boss lady involved.”

Kurt thrusts a hand up in the air, only to have it swatted down by the same dude who called him out earlier. Scowling, the kid clutches his hand to his chest and solemnly vows, “Screw tomorrow, I’ll fix the wall right now.”

When he moves to leave, two different pairs of arms pin him in place. “No,” both guys mutter emphatically. Kurt frowns, and I stop just short of rolling my eyes.

Time’s up.

I’ve got a cannolo with Shirley to eat, three more stars to ink, and that’s not even factoring in the next two clients that are booked for this afternoon. The first one is getting an easy tat—a skull-and-crossbones combo that I could sketch out in my sleep—but the other scheduled appointment is gonna be a doozy. Covering up some old ink, lots of colors, intricate shading that’s going to take me hours. I don’t have time to be worrying about a random hole in my wall or having to listen to . . .

Christ, is that Nickelback playing on the radio?

I meet Chad’s gaze because, out of the lot of them, he seems the one most likely to pull himself together and rise to the occasion. Though if he’s the one responsible for the boob video, maybe I’m wrong.

“I’ll be sure to mention it was an accident,” I manage tightly, “no harm, no foul. But I need that wall fixed, and I don’t have time to wait for the boss to show up whenever she damn well feels like it.”

Almost as one, the group shifts their attention to something or someone coming down the hall. I hear the staccato of heels striking concrete. The sharp breath of Kurt, who honestly looks like he’s about to piss himself. The scrape of my shoes as I twist around, fully prepared to take in what has everyone else looking like petrified hens.

Fuck me.

I wish I hadn’t looked.

Because there, walking toward me, is the one woman who took my dead, neglected heart and dropped the damn thing right in the meat grinder. Even now it beats irregularly, like it’s not sure whether it’s acceptable to launch into a sprint at the sight of her or shrivel up and retreat into hibernation.

If I were anyone else but me—cool, calm, and collected, twenty-four-seven—I’d set a hand on my chest, just to ensure I haven’t suffered a heart attack at a critical time, like Peggy’s husband.

After all, it’s not every day you come face to face with the woman who chose twenty-six other men over you.

When Savannah’s sky-high heels careen to a halt, I know she’s spotted me. Panic floods her gorgeous face, widening her gaze and parting her full lips and making her fingers, which are wrapped around a thick stack of manila folders, clench.

“Owen?” Her voice cracks on the second syllable of my name, and then she swallows, audibly. Shifts her weight from one foot to the other. And I’m just enough of an asshole that I don’t answer, not right away, because the last time we saw each other, she looked me dead in the eye and told me that she felt nothing for me but friendship.

Pure, platonic friendship.

Savannah Rose is a lot of things—sweet, ambitious, a defender to every person around her, even to her own detriment—but I never took her for a liar.

Not until that night.

I feel the tension simmering in the air between us, and it’s not just the New Orleans swampy humidity kicking into gear. It’s us, this tangible chemistry that I wish didn’t exist but always has, from the very first moment we met, when I was dating her younger sister.

My molars grind together. “Rose.”

She sucks in a harsh breath, as though she can’t believe I have the balls to use my nickname for her. Twisting away, she gives me a view of her profile and one slender shoulder. “What are you doing here? Aren’t you busy with . . . aren’t you busy next door?”

Ice thickens in my veins.

Did she plan on speaking to me? Or did she seriously think that she could waltz into the storefront next to mine and pretend that I don’t exist? Something tells me it’s the latter, and I feel emotion—anger, bitterness, and worse, embarrassment—clog my throat. Clearly, this joint is about to be converted into one of her family’s many restaurants, which means she’ll be in and out of here for months during construction. And then later, too, when the place opens and patrons flock to yet another Edgar Rose Restaurant Group establishment.

As if the city isn’t already overrun by them.

I imagine Savannah sneaking in and out the restaurant, always checking to see if I’m on my way out of Inked, or always heading left, toward St. Peter Street, just so she won’t risk me catching a glimpse of her out my front windows.

The embarrassment recedes, scattering like confetti on a windy day.

I step in her path.

Because I’m feeling ticked off.

Because I am ticked off.

Still, after all these months.

Her thick hair falls in waves down her back, nearly to her waist. Like a curtain, it shields her face from scrutiny. Much as my fingers itch to tuck back the strands—refusing to let her hide from me—I casually hook my thumbs in the belt loops of my jeans instead.

“Don’t,” she warns on a shaky whisper.

“Don’t what? Be here?” I drop my voice to a low, unforgiving pitch. “Hate to break the news to you, but I’ve got an appointment with the boss.”

That gets her attention.

Her eyes are almond-shaped, lashes thick and batting quickly as she stares up at me, though not at all flirtatiously. She’s confused, on the verge of calling me out, I’m sure, when Kurt clears his throat behind me and ventures, “We, uh, screwed up, Miss Rose.”

He points to the wall, and she follows the length of his arm with her gaze.

“Crap.”

Whether she’s talking about the inevitable repairs or the fact that she’ll now have to interact with me for the foreseeable future, I’m not quite sure. Either way, it’s almost grossly satisfying to know that as much as she wants to be done with me, the universe has pulled a giant middle finger and flashed it in her direction.

Somehow, I’ve found myself with the upper hand and I’m not about to squander it.

I drop a hand to her stack of folders, careful not to touch her, and lower my head so we’re at eye level. For a second, I let myself remember before. All the times she sat in Inked, watching me work. The first time she asked if I could tattoo something on her skin. The first time I touched her skin. Soft. So fucking soft. I’d gone home, fully prepared to do the right thing and go straight to bed, and instead found myself standing beneath my shower head, my hand wrapped around my dick. Because, Christ, everything about this woman calls to me, no matter the fact that, in theory, she’s never been mine to want in the first place.

“Send me an invoice,” she clips out, clearly striving for control of her emotions, “and we’ll take care of the repairs.”

An invoice isn’t going to work for me.

“Thirty minutes,” I tell her, not bothering to temper the hard note in my voice. “I’ll be waiting next door.”

Her brows shoot up. “We shouldn’t.”

I let out a short, caustic laugh. “When has that ever stopped us before?”

Prologue

Chapter One

Start Reading Love Me Tomorrow Right Now!