Steadying my hand on his arm, I pressed the foot pedal, too gently at first, and the gun came alive. The vibration in my hand sent a jolt of power through my arms that I quickly became addicted to. I managed to outline a small flower—you guessed it, a morning glory—right on his arm. It was tiny and easily covered if he ever came to his senses.

“Nice job, kid,” he said before clapping me on the back. “Why don’t you come apprentice for me? I said I wasn’t taking any artists on, but fuck it. I like your style.”

“I’m shipping out to boot camp next week,” I muttered, feeling regret for the first time over my dedication to enlist.

“When you get back, then,” he laughed.

And the rest was history. When I came home, the old man was still there, and the offer still stood. I showed up everyday for a year before Hank retired and Hazel bought the shop for me.

The doorbell chimes, stealing my attention from my trip down memory lane. I’m about to tell whoever it is that we’re not officially open yet, but I stop when Savannah steps into the shop. She has on a skirt that comes to her knees and a loose-fitting top. I immediately want to wrap my hands around her waist and press her soft body against mine.

“I didn’t make an appointment,” she says coyly, leaning against the counter with a smile on her face.

“Walk-ins are always welcome.” I stand up and walk toward her, pushing her dark brown hair behind her ears. There is a beauty mark on her cheek, and I lay a kiss there without thinking. When I pull back, she’s watching me. Her expression is guarded, but the way she’s breathing tells me she’s aroused.

“We should do this tattoo, or I’m afraid we’ll waste all of our time.”

She smiles and kisses me back. “What’s wrong with wasting time?”

This girl is dangerous.

Instead of doing what my dick wants, I lead her toward the chair and let her sit while I get my portfolio. “I worked this up for you. I think it’ll go nicely over the scar.”

When I put the sketchbook in her hands, her lips part and she stills. “You drew this for me?” Her fingers caressed the pencil marks.

“Of course. It’s just a sketch.”

“It’s beautiful.”

I take the paper from her and show her exactly where it will go on her leg. The raised bump won’t absorb color the same way, but if we position it just right, it won’t have to.

“It’s perfect,” she whispers. Her eyes linger on my face, and I do my best to keep from staring back. Things get like this when we’re alone. Charged. Downright fucking electric.