Page 19 of Sugar & Ink
Eventually was doing a lot of work in that sentence.
I couldn’t afford help yet. Not real help, anyway. Maybe a part-time high school kid once I had a better idea of what normal business looked like, but for now it was me. Just me. I knew that going in, but knowing something and living it were two very different things.
Yesterday, I had smiled until my face hurt, scooped until my wrist ached, and cleaned until my back screamed at me. Then I had climbed a ladder after working fifteen hours because apparently exhaustion made me stupid.
And then Rome had caught me.
Well, not me.
The ladder.
Close enough.
I took a sip of coffee and frowned at my notebook.
He had been bossy. Not rude exactly, but definitely bossy.
He had walked into my shop like he belonged there, pointed out I was making bad choices, taken the box down like it weighed nothing, then told me to sit down and eat. Any other man might’ve earned a firm invitation to leave.
Rome had earned one too.
I just hadn’t given it. Because he had brought burgers. And fries. And pie.
I wasn’t proud of how easily my irritation had folded in the face of hot food, but in my defense, I had been running on coffee, adrenaline, and whatever fumes came from melted sugar.
Also, he hadn’t made a show of it.
That was the part that kept circling in my head.
He had just sat down, handed me food, and acted like it made sense to make sure someone ate before they collapsed into a freezer.
I didn’t need to be thinking about Rome. Not about any man.
Especially not a twenty-nine-year-old tattoo artist who rode a motorcycle, wore too much black, and looked at me like he wondered what I looked like without my apron on.
I stood and headed for the bathroom, carrying my coffee with me because there were very few situations in life that couldn’t be improved by caffeine. Getting ready took longer than it should have, mostly because I changed shirts twice and then got mad at myself for caring.
The first shirt was too tight.
The second was too loose.
The third was fine, which meant I immediately hated it.
I stared at myself in the mirror, wearing jeans, comfortable shoes, and a pale blue T-shirt with the Scoop & Swirl logo printed across the chest. My hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and my face looked tired but not terrible.
I looked like a woman who had opened an ice cream shop and lived to tell about it.
That should’ve been enough.
So why had I changed shirts like Rome was going to walk in with a clipboard and grade me?
I didn’t even know his last name.
Actually, maybe I did. Had I seen it on the tattoo shop window? Bad Habit Tattoo. Rome DeLuca, Owner. Maybe. Or maybe I had made that up because his name felt like it needed a last name that sounded slightly dangerous.
I groaned and leaned closer to the mirror. “Get it together, Josie.”
My reflection did not seem convinced.
