But I don’t have time to be surprised or concerned right now. I have only a few minutes to search this room. All the boxes are sealed with original package tape. I can’t very well tear into those before she gets back. That leaves me with the six rectangular ceiling tiles above me that I can search now. Hopping onto the leather table that I’ll be spending a long time on tonight from the sounds of it, I pop the first tile off its frame and ease it down. Using the flashlight on my phone, I stand tall enough to see into the space above and scan the interior. The walls are interior structures and not load-bearing, so there’s nothing to obstruct my view far beyond just this room, other than the darkness, and plenty of wires, cobwebs, rodent droppings.

No videotape.

I pivot around, searching as far as the light carries. There’s nothing.

“What are you doing?”

Fuck. I should have expected that. She’s a damn ninja, moving so quietly. I should have remembered that from the other day, at her house. “I heard something running through here,” I say, my voice calm and unconcerned about getting caught. The sound of an innocent man, just trying to be of help.

“So you figured you’d dismantle the ceiling and, what . . . catch it?” she mocks. Not so much as a suspicious inflection in her voice, at least.

“You said you were selling, didn’t you?” I finally look down, to find her small face peering up at me. “The last thing you want to be doing is trying to sell a place infested with rats.”

“Rats?” She pauses, her demeanor suddenly shifting. “Did you see something up there?”

“No. Why?”

“It’s just . . .” She folds her arms over her chest, hugging herself tight, reminding me that she’s hiding a curvy little body under that loose T-shirt. “. . . They have those beady eyes and long tails . . .” She glares at the ceiling as if one’s going to suddenly drop down on her head.

The girl who will crawl through gaps in boards and spend an entire night spray painting by lantern, with every kind of junkie and vermin—including rats—within a hundred-yard radius of her, is now freaked out.

“What?” she snaps, scowling at me, and I realize that I’m staring at her. “I just really hate rats. That’s normal.”

Reaching down for the ceiling tile, I replace it in its frame and hop down to the floor, a slight sting shooting through my leg. The bullet wound hasn’t completely healed yet. “No rat. Maybe I was just hearing things.”

By the frown on her face, that doesn’t seem to appease her new concern.

“Do you want me to check the rest of the place?” I offer, selfishly. I can search for the videotape more efficiently if I’m supposed to be looking for something to begin with.

She hesitates, that stubborn, independent streak of hers keeping her from asking for more help. Finally, her disgust for rodents in the workplace must win out. “Maybe after I’m done with your design.”

I nod. That works. “How do you want me?”

She gives her head a subtle but noticeable shake, before clueing in. “Lying on your side, with your arm over your head, for the work. But I need to put your transfer on you first, so go stand over there.” She points to the other side of the table, where there’s more room and a full-length mirror propped up against the wall, and then busies herself with the music playlist on her phone, syncing it with the same little portable speaker she had out last night. When she ties her hair back into a ponytail, I notice the flush in her ears.

I smile to myself. That’s what she does. Ducks to hide her emotions when she can’t control them, when she’s most vulnerable. I’m sure that knowledge will come in handy later.

I shift over to take in my reflection as a slow, rhythmic song begins playing. “Are you trying to put me to sleep on your table?” The cushion on that bench looks soft enough, but I doubt it would be after that many hours. Then again, I’ve fallen asleep in much worse conditions than this.

“If you can sleep through a needle on your ribs, I’ll be impressed.”

“And what does impressing you get me?”

She exhales softly but doesn’t answer. I watch her reflection in the mirror as she turns and walks toward me, gloves on and spray bottle in hand. She slows to a pause, her pinched gaze on my back.

THIRTEEN

IVY

The scars are scattered across his back, from shoulder to kidney area. They make me flinch.

They make me think he isn’t just a soldier who survived boot camp and wore a uniform.

They make me think that he was hurt very badly.

They make me think that he’s seen a lot worse than I ever have.

I clear my throat, pushing those sad thoughts aside. “Okay, the end will reach down to where your belt sits. It’d be better if you pushed your jeans down a few inches.”

“Are you asking me to take off my pants, Ivy?”

There it is again. The words are flirtatious but his tone is entirely neutral. Almost sterile. But I can see his eyes in the mirror. They’re on me, sharp and perceptive and anticipating.

Waiting for my reaction.

“After seven hours under my needle, we’ll practically be married. You may as well unbuckle now,” I answer, gritting my teeth to keep from smiling like a fool who’s excited at the prospect of Sebastian flirting with me.

With one deft hand, he unfastens his belt and jeans. They slide a few inches to reveal the elastic band of Jockey boxer briefs. I doubt this guy owns even one overhyped name-brand item of clothing. He seems too practical.

A quick glance in the mirror shows me more of that line of dark hair running down from his navel and the prominent bulge below. It’s good to know that he didn’t lose any vital parts in whatever war he was a part of.

“Is that good?”

“It’ll do. Come here.”

I take his hand and settle it on my shoulder, so it’s out of the way when I mist his body with green soap. I expect him to flinch from the cool temperature like everyone does, but his face remains even. It’s like he doesn’t even notice. He simply watches me. Grabbing a paper towel, I quickly wipe off the excess, silently admiring the ridges carved into his stomach, which he’s clearly worked so hard on. I squeeze several globs of the gel needed for the transfer to adhere to his side and begin running my fingers over the full length of his side, gently smoothing and massaging it in, my breathing quickening with each dip and rise of his body, especially as I reach the sharp cut between his abdomen and hip. Wishing for the moment that I didn’t have to wear gloves. That I didn’t need the excuse of a tattoo machine to touch him like this.

I’ve turned into a hormonal fourteen-year-old. I hated being fourteen when I was fourteen. Now . . . it’s dangerous. I have no issues with acting on my desires. Like the desire to slide my hand into the front of his briefs right now.

Thank God no one can read minds around here.

“Okay, take a deep breath and let it go . . .” I watch his chest rise and fall. “Now relax and stand normally. And hold still.” The warning is unnecessary. Sebastian is a natural statue beside me as I position his design on his body and carefully peel away the paper, leaving my creation behind.

I smile. “So, what do you think?”

“Fierce. Stunning. Captivating.”

“You’re not even . . .” I sigh, feeling my cheeks flare under his scrutiny. He can’t see the design; he’s too busying staring at me, and he’s not even covert about it. I nod toward the full-length mirror on the wall opposite us. “Take a look for yourself.”

He turns away from me and strolls over to peer at his reflection again, making no effort to grip his jeans, letting them slide down more, until I can see the round humps of what I’m sure is a hard, perfect ass.