My phone buzzes on the counter, and I glance at the screen. Sanford’s latest post. My new shop location is tagged. The new number listed, because I now have a fucking landline.

Who the hell still has a landline?

What’s next? A fax machine, just to go all retro? Like, I’m going to let him keep dictating what I’m planning on doing here. This is mine for two years. I should double up with the post. Maybe even add a sale in there because who in their right mind will take a plane and then the back roads to come and visit me? Nobody.

A loud knock against the glass storefront pulls my attention away. It’s not a customer. Of course, it’s not. Nobody in this town is getting a tattoo. Bland, boring people with their beige lives will just snob this shop.

I ignore it, but the knock comes again.

I exhale slow and long, dragging my gaze toward the door. And there he is. Malerick Timberbridge. Fucking Malerick. The sheriff. The golden boy. Oh, and my oldest brother. The one who never makes mistakes, never strays, never does anything that isn’t perfectly aligned with the damn rules.

The last person I wanted to see today. Or ever.

“Open the fucking door, Atlas,” he calls through the glass.

I could ignore him. Turn around and head upstairs through the back room. Let him stand there, stewing in his own self-righteousness.

Of course, I don’t. I know better. Malerick doesn’t just go away.

Rolling my shoulders, I push up from the counter and unlock the door.

“What do you want?” I mutter, stepping aside just enough to let him in. The last thing I need is some screaming match out on the street.

His jaw tightens, but he steps inside anyway.

I lock the door behind him. Not because I’m worried that someone will sneak in and try to steal some body jewelry. Nope. It’s because I don’t need an audience for whatever bullshit he’s about to throw at me. People in this town? They walk into shops just to eavesdrop. Just to see what’s happening.

Malerick takes his time, scanning the space like he’s cataloging every detail, gathering evidence for some kind of case. His gaze flicks back to me.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

“You need to be more specific, Sheriff.” My tone is all lazy indifference, knowing damn well it’ll piss him off.

His mouth twitches. He hates when I say it like that, like it’s a joke.

“We don’t need a tattoo shop in this town.”

I cross my arms, tilt my head, and smile. “You don’t? Oh, well, guess I better pack it up and leave because you said so.”

His eyes narrow. Not a fan of my sarcasm. Shocking.

“Tell me why the fuck you’re here, Atlas.”

“Wouldn’t you like to know.”