Love Me Tomorrow: Put A Ring On It Read online

  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.

  1

  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 mak
e 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 t
he 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?”