Total pages in book: 64
Estimated words: 61100 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 306(@200wpm)___ 244(@250wpm)___ 204(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 61100 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 306(@200wpm)___ 244(@250wpm)___ 204(@300wpm)
A new week is starting, and I’m making another delivery, this time in a new outfit I bought over the weekend, a little black skirt and a silky red shirt with a neckline that’s lower than I usually wear. I can lie and say my clothing has nothing to do with the men, but I’d also have to make excuses for why I’ve been spending more time on my hair and makeup every morning.
I can’t deny that I’m trying to impress them, though I’m not totally sure why.
The familiar moody ‘90s grunge music greets me, but there are also raised voices filled with irritation.
“We run enough ads,” Christian’s saying. “Word of mouth is a better way to grow.”
“And how do you propose — oh, hi Rose.” Hutch interrupts himself as soon as he sees me come in, and his tone softens, too. “How are you?”
I hesitate in the doorway. “Am I interrupting?”
“We can finish our conversation later.” Hutch directs this more at Christian than me, before heading my way. “Here, let me help you.” He takes the tray of drinks from me, his big hands briefly covering mine as we make the transfer, sending now-familiar, but still very exciting sensations up my arms and throughout my body. “You look nice today,” he says, his eyes taking in my new outfit.
“Thank you.” A warm glow joins the tingling sensations.
“You look nice every day,” Christian says, and I thank him too, as Hutch shoots him a glare that I pretend not to see.
“Who ordered the London fog tea? Do you have clients in?” I ask. For the past couple of deliveries, they seemed to have me come at a time when most of them were between jobs. I don’t hear any tattoo guns buzzing right now, but the music is fairly loud.
“That’s mine.” Zipper strides forward, the sight of him making my belly flutter. It’s not that I find him any more attractive than the others—they all do things to my belly—but as they start to surround me, I get overwhelmed.
“You like tea?” I manage to ask.
He gives me one of his usual half shrugs, and pulls his drink from the carrier that Hutch is still holding. As he’s reaching for it, I spot his Brothers in Ink tattoo on his right inner bicep.
“Oh, your logo tattoo!” I point to it, excited, like I’ve found a spot on a treasure map.
Zipper transfers his drink to his other hand and then steps closer, flexing the thick muscles on his arm, giving me a better look. Before I can stop myself, I reach out and touch it, tracing my finger over the shapes, feeling the steel that lies beneath his warm skin. I glance up at him to make sure what I’m doing is okay, and he’s watching my finger intently with a typically unreadable expression on his face. If this wasn’t okay, I suppose he’d step away.
“Who drew this on you?” I ask.
“Christian.” His voice sounds deeper than usual, or am I imagining that?
“What’s this that curves around behind it?” There are swirling lines, bold colors, and I think I see clawed feet.
“A dragon. Mace did that one.”
“Have you all done each other’s tattoos?”
“Mostly.” He doesn’t move to show off more of the dragon, so I put my hand down. Neither of us steps back, though, and I can feel the energy coming off of his body like electrical sparks.
“No bakery today?”
“We had a big lunch,” Hutch says, and it’s his voice that finally pulls me out of Zipper’s invisible hold.
I distribute drinks to Christian and to Mace, who’s also come up to join us.
“Do you have any clients here?” I ask them.
“Not at the moment,” Christian says with a quick glance to Hutch before he directs his full focus to me.
“Is business going okay? My brother always worries when there’s a slow day at the coffee shop.” All of the men are holding their drinks, but my hands are empty, and my fingers tingle with the desire to trace over more of their tattoos.
“It varies by season,” Mace says. “Most days we’re busy now in the summer, and we have clients coming in later.”
“Oh, that’s good. Same goes for us. It’s much busier now than it was a month ago.”
I hear the shop’s door open and turn to find an older woman coming in. She doesn’t look like someone I’d imagine getting a tattoo, but I guess you never know.
“Mrs. Marcos,” Hutch says, giving her a nod.
“Oh good, you’re up front.” The woman’s voice matches her small frame. “I’m sorry to bother you, but could one of you help me with the mailbox again?” She dangles a keychain in front of her that holds what looks to be at least a dozen keys.
“Sure thing.” Hutch strides over to her, setting his drink on the front desk before following her out the door.