Old Ink (Get Ink'd #3) - Ali Lyda Page 0,6

before, a skinny kid got caught breaking the window of my shop and Dane, giant softy that he was, hired him instead of calling the police.

Channing.

Sometimes I still felt the searing heat of the kiss he’d planted on me all that time ago. I still felt how quickly my body had responded, so hungry for him that it hurt. And I carried with me each day the heavy ache of rejecting him.

It had been for the best. He’d just turned eighteen and graduated high school, for fuck’s sake. What could he possibly want with an old man like me? Besides, I knew a thing or two about older men...and Channing deserved more. Better.

“What are you thinking about, Boss?”

Dane could sometimes say something so innocent and yet make me want to punch him in his smarmy face. He held a beer out to me and made himself at home, sitting beside me. Mateo, his old roommate and constant co-conspirator, sat on my other side. I’d been flanked and trapped. Merciless assholes.

“I’m just glad filming is over,” I said evasively.

“Filming is what has you looking all piney and forlorn?” Dane said in mock incredulity. “Because I could swear it seemed like you were thinking about someone…”

“Perhaps reminiscing,” Mateo added, “about someone with dark curls and eyes the color of sapphires…”

“Who happens to be home for the summer,” Dane continued, batting his eyelashes dramatically, “And needing a place to work…”

My cheeks were burning. Sometimes I wondered why I helped these assholes out. Maybe I needed to stop being so generous if this was what it earned me.

But then something Dane said clicked into place. “He’s home? I thought he usually stayed at school for the summer.”

Something in Dane’s eyes flickered, but his smile didn’t falter. “Channing decided he needed a break, and we wanted to support him. And since we all know Trinity will be on maternity leave soon, it is awful fortuitous that Channing is home and looking for work.”

“Fortuitous,” I said, deadpan.

“Exactly,” Dane replied.

Mateo heaved a heavy sigh. “We’re ragging on you, but it’s been a long time. Plus, Trinity’s been worried about having very little time to train someone new, and we already know Channing fits in with the crew and knows the shop inside and out. He’d be a great receptionist.”

The worst part about the conversation was not only were they right—Channing was a perfect fit to fill in for Trinity—but that I was sweating. So much fucking sweat. I was forty-five, and felt like I was a nervous sixteen-year-old at the prospect of seeing Channing again. Working with him.

But I also knew the last time we’d seen each other hadn’t felt like enough closure. Even though I felt good about my decision to turn Channing down for his sake, I was beginning to see that while I’d made the right call for him, I’d somehow neglected an important part of the equation…

Me.

2

Channing

A full week of bliss: I slept in. I binge-watched TV. I went for runs because I could. I worked very hard to not think about Reagan every time Dane talked about the shop, and regularly failed at my attempts. And I did great at ignoring the real reason I’d come home for the summer.

Christian and Dane were jubilant, making me feel welcome despite all the time I’d been living away from them with only holidays and the occasional weekend visit back home. It startled me how much their house had become home in my mind. They’d certainly been going out of their way to let me know they felt the same about my presence.

But Dane had been...weird. Like, weirder than normal Dane, and that was saying something. So when he made a huge dinner—scallops wrapped in bacon with asparagus and fresh hollandaise on the side—I knew something was up. Especially since Christian was working an overnight at the ER.

My mind worked through a hundred possibilities. They were going to adopt a baby. They were breaking up. Dane was being sued for something he said or did on television.

We sat at the dining room table, Dane rambling about how he’d made the food, and me stabbing at it with my fork. Don’t get me wrong—it looked and smelled delicious. But anxiety had a way of souring everything, even bacon-wrapped scallops.

Dane finally pointed his fork at me and glared. “You’re not eating.”

“You’re being weird,” I retorted.

“I’m always weird,” Dane shot back. “You’re being all surly.”

“No,” I said, leaning back in my chair and crossing my arms. “I’m worried