Virgin Seeks Bad Boy (Bliss River #3) - Lili Valente Page 0,2

old enough to get into a bar for nearly two years now, but I’ve never even thought about going to the honky-tonk, even though I’ve been a huge fan of live music since my sister, Aria, took me to my first all-ages show in Atlanta when I was sixteen.

But I’m a “nice girl,” and nice girls don’t go to places like The Horse and Rider.

Nice girls volunteer at the retirement home, go to church at least once a week, head to bed before midnight, and watch their language in polite company. I try not to cuss, but when I really need to drop an “f-bomb,” I make darned sure it doesn’t happen in front of my parents, Nana, or anyone who might report back to the above.

And that’s all good. I’ve always liked being a “nice girl.” It’s a way of life that’s come relatively easily for me.

But for some reason, the throbbing beat pulsing from behind the honky-tonk’s door calls to me tonight in a way it hasn’t before.

I want to know what’s going on in there. I want to check out the size of the dance floor, taste the allegedly awful draft beer, and feel the music pulsing through my bones.

I’m about to ask Kitty if she wants to duck into the bar for a look around before we head to the diner—just to check it out for future dancing possibilities— when Kitty stops dead in her tracks on the sidewalk and squeezes my arm tight enough to make me squeak in surprise.

“Melody, is that who I think it is?” she hisses beneath her breath.

“Who?” I look around, but there’s no one else on the sidewalk on either side of the street. “Where?” I ask again in my normal voice.

“Hush! There, in the tattoo shop,” Kitty whispers. “The red sign. Big. Glowing. Says Tattoo in all caps.”

My eyes widen as I home in on the neon sign affixed to the brick edifice above the store to our right. The shop was a crafting supply store for about a year but has languished empty since Craft Happy went out of business. The Main Street area is a hopping place, but this end of downtown is older and more faded than the refurbished buildings closer to the square. The landlord of this store always seems to have a problem retaining renters. Every business that opens ends up closing within a year or less.

Sadly, I doubt the newest tenants will do much better. They’ll be lucky to last until Christmas.

“A tattoo shop.” I arch a brow, laughter in my voice. “In downtown Bliss River? What were they thinking?”

“Maybe he was thinking he’s tired of working as a part time cater-waiter. That’s Nick, right?” Kitty points a discreet, but jabby, finger toward the shop window.

I follow the direction of the jab. There, on a rolling stool, tattoo gun in hand in the brightly lit shop, is none other than Nick Geary.

As always, his dark brown hair is carefully spiked, sprouting wildly around his head, but instead of a tray of champagne flutes, his magnetic green eyes are focused on the beefy forearm of a bald man in a Harley Davidson tee shirt.

The moment I lay eyes on him, my tequila-numbed synapses snap and flicker. I remember Nick said he used to work in a tattoo parlor in Atlanta, but I had no idea he was planning to open a shop in Bliss River.

Did he mention that?

Surely he didn’t, or I would have remembered.

For better or worse, I tend to remember every word that spills from Nick’s smirky, sexy mouth.

Silently, I wish this shop a long, happy life. Nick is even more handsome with that look of complete concentration on his face.

I watch, mesmerized, as he deftly guides the buzzing needle across the man’s skin with an assurance that makes it clear he’s achieved mastery of his craft. The muscles in his arms flex deliciously as he works, drawing attention to the tattoos trailing from beneath the sleeves of his T-shirt, making my breath come faster even before Kitty says—

“We should go in and say hi.”

I gulp and freeze, anxiety dumping into my bloodstream.

Am I ready to face off with Nick right now? I never used to be nervous around boys, even boys I thought were cute, but that was B.N.G.—Before Nick Geary. Before he made me tongue tied. Before he remained unfazed by my gifts of mouth-orgasm-inducing cookies. Before he made it clear my flirting game isn’t nearly as solid as I’d