Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 92841 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92841 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
“Ugh,” I groan. “You know I love a good enemies-to-lovers romance.”
“Here,” she says, handing it to me. “I have it on my Kindle.”
I take it from her and eye it, wondering if maybe it’s time for me to give romance books another shot. I won’t be going out with Shane, but maybe I could live vicariously through a woman who isn’t as fucked up as I am.
My thoughts go to the black box my mom left in my Valentine’s Day basket. Maybe it’s time I put it to use.
“Kinsley, your ten o’clock appointment is here,” Scott says, poking his head into my room.
“I’ll be out in a sec,” I tell him as I finish prepping my station.
Yesterday, I didn’t have an appointment for this morning, so I didn’t plan to come in until noon, but last night, when Scott sent out our daily schedule reminders, one had popped up.
Which was fine with me since the last place I wanted to be was at home, staring at the romance book I couldn’t bring myself to read.
After my appointment with Julia, I went for a run to the health club, and when I passed by the fire station, I couldn’t help but wonder if Shane was in there and what he was doing.
So, when I got home, I grabbed the book, hoping to get him off my mind. But instead, three pages in, when I found out the hero was a firefighter—damn Julia for leaving out that crucial detail—I closed the book and refused to open it again, staring at it until I finally fell asleep. And then I ignored it on my nightstand as I got ready for work this morning.
Work is the best distraction, so while I’d usually be annoyed that Scott sprang a last-minute appointment on me, this morning, I’m looking forward to it.
Once my station is ready, I silence my phone and stow it away in my drawer and then head out to the waiting room to meet my client. Scott didn’t leave any info about them, not even their name, which is very unlike him, so I have no idea what I’m working with.
Only when I step out of my room, my eyes lock with Shane, who’s standing in the waiting room, dressed in a navy-blue shirt that reads Station One across his chest with a matching ball cap tucked low on his forehead.
What is it about a man sporting a ball cap that makes a woman swoon?
He’s got on a pair of dark blue jeans that mold to his thighs perfectly, and on his feet are a pair of Nikes.
As if he can sense me checking him out, his head pops up from his phone, and his brown eyes lock with mine.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, my question coming out blunter than I intended.
“He’s your ten o’clock,” Scott says.
My gaze swings over to him, and from the smirk he’s trying and failing to stifle, he knows exactly what he did.
“Have you ever been inked before?” I ask Shane, who shakes his head.
“And what are you planning to get today?”
“Umm …” He glances from Scott to me and then says, “I was thinking something small, like maybe …”
“Stop right there.” I hold up my hand to emphasize my words and then look at Scott. “Did you make this appointment?”
“Yeah, but …”
“No buts,” I hiss. “You know my rule. If it’s not meaningful, I don’t tattoo it. Did you even ask him what he was getting when you made the appointment?”
“He didn’t make it,” my dad says, stepping out from his station. “I did.”
“Seriously?” I glare.
“It’s not his fault,” Shane says, stepping toward me. “You said you wouldn’t talk to me unless I was getting inked or saving your life in an ambulance, so I made an appointment to get inked.”
“You what?” I choke out, shocked by his admission. “A tattoo is permanent,” I point out. “You were seriously going to let me put something permanent on your body just so you could talk to me for a few minutes?”
Shane shrugs, a small tilt of his lips quirking at the corners. “I figured it would be worth it, if I could use that time to convince you to go on a date with me.”
Oh my God. This guy.
“I already said I’m unavailable.”
“Which isn’t the truth,” my traitorous dad points out, raising a brow and daring me to argue.
“It’s not happening,” I say to Shane. “I appreciate the effort, but I’m not going out with you. And I’m definitely not tattooing something meaningless on your body. Come back when you have something worth tattooing … and don’t even think about getting it off Google or Pinterest.”
I glance at Scott. “Don’t make appointments without asking them what they’re getting!” I point to the wall where a sign hangs, saying, If you’d like to book an appointment with Kinsley, please make sure your piece is meaningful. She has the right to refuse to ink anyone. “You know my rule.”