One to Keep (One to Hold) (3 page)

“Thanks for helping me out.”

I paused and looked back for a second. Then I remembered his comment about his late wife, and decided not to be a shit. “I guess I could do this more. How often you come up here?”

He set the dumbbells down and picked up his towel and water bottle. “Couple times a week.”

“Let me know next time, and I’ll join you.”

He agreed as I picked up my phone and headed out to the parking lot.

* * *

Nikki greeted me perky as always the next morning. Today she wore denim capris and a blue top that reminded me of something a pirate might own. The open collar slung low around her neck and off one shoulder, revealing her soft cleavage.

Working out took the edge off last night, but I’d woken up with a raging hard-on this morning. Beating off in the shower sucked, and my arms were sore from lifting more than I was used to. I was ready to relax into the real thing—soft, warm, and wet.

“Are you turning into a muscle head like Derek?” She smiled, and I considered asking her out right then, to hell with office protocol.

Her hair hung loose down her back, and all I could think of was pulling her onto my lap, sliding my hands under that top, my thumbs across her tight nipples. Shit, if I wasn’t getting a semi envisioning it.

“I don’t want to look juiced,” I said. “But I’ll probably meet up with him some during the week.”

“Stuart never did.”

“Right. I guess you knew my brother?”

Her eyes went back to her laptop. “Mm-hm.” The way she said it, all wistful like she was remembering something… Had Nikki and Stuart been together? Shit. That threw a wrench in my plans. I wasn’t interested in swimming in his wake.

“Yeah, he never worked out.” I tried to recover. “Say, Nik,” I stayed by her desk. It was just the two of us in the office, and I had another question on my mind. “Derek said something about his wife yesterday.”

Her eyes widened. “He did?”

I paused, slightly taken aback. “What happened? Was she killed?”

“Oh, no.” She shook her head and leaned back in her chair. “She died about six years ago. Cancer, I think. Stuart said they were childhood sweethearts or something. She waited for him to come back from overseas and they got married.”

“Were they married long?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. Derek never talks about it. As in
never
. And as far as I know he never dates anyone.”

For a moment I chewed the inside of my cheek, thinking. Being loyal I could understand. Hell, I could still remember the devotion I felt when I’d proposed to Stacy, but six years was a long time to be alone. I wasn’t sure how that changed my opinion of my new partner. How much alike that made us.

Formerly
alike.

The soft noise of a throat clearing brought me back. I blinked to find Nikki narrowing her eyes at me.

“What?” Coming out of my distraction, I realized my eyes had been lingering on her breasts.

“Leave something on me, I might catch a cold.”

I coughed a laugh. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“Oh, please. I’ve watched those sexy hazel eyes undress me for two days.” She stood and picked up her smartphone. “There’s a coffee shop in Building C. You could at least buy me a drink after all that action.”

“Sure,” I said, checking the clock. It was 7:45. The office didn’t officially open until nine. Forget Stuart. Forget Derek and one-sided loyalties. I was following my new philosophy now, and ready to see how far this might go.

* * *

Nikki sipped the hot beverage, her pink lips lined as always in a darker rose. “No coffee for you?”

“No.” We walked slowly back to the Alexander-Knight offices. “I like coffee, but when it’s hot like this, not as much.”

She nodded. “I’m addicted. I could have coffee all day long in any weather.”

In the center of the cluster of five buildings was a round courtyard with benches and a tall, obelisk-shaped fountain. We paused for a moment to watch the water rippling down the sides of the smooth concrete, and I wondered how to get us on the subject of us.

Nikki broke the silence. “So tell me about Patrick Knight,” she said, giving me that cocky glance. “Why is a hot young thing like you single and relocating from Chicago to Princeton?”

“Wow,” I laughed. “You know a lot already.”

“I handle the office paperwork, remember?”

“Right,” I nodded as we started walking again. “It’s simple. Broke up with my fiancée, wanted to start somewhere fresh.”

“So you’re a heartbreaker.” Nikki winked as she sipped again.

“Nope. I was the one getting his insides kicked out that time.” Exhaling, I just said it. “Caught her screwing a guy in my building.”

Nikki’s thin brows pulled together, and she touched my arm. “I’m so sorry, Patrick.”

My hand covered hers briefly. “No worries, it’s ancient history. And Stuart said this was a great gig.”

She took another sip as she nodded. “Stuart was a lot of fun. You remind me of him.”

“He tries to be as cool as me.”

She laughed, her thick lashes fluttering as she rolled her eyes. “You’re too much.”

“How long have you worked here?” I studied her profile, her small, upturned nose and those full lips I wanted to taste, as we pushed through the heavy metal doors of Building A.

“Three months, but it’s a pretty straightforward office.”

“Except for the hard-ass boss?” I held the door for her.

“Derek’s just like every entrepreneur I’ve ever worked for.” She leaned against the marble wall, waiting for the elevator. “He has his own ideas of how to do things, and he isn’t a very good communicator.” Then she added in a sneaky tone. “He really needs to get laid.”

I smiled, but that comment stopped me. “Were you planning to help him with his problem?”

“No.” Her lips parted over straight, white teeth. “But I was sorry to see Stuart go.”

Her eyes traveled from my face to my lips briefly as the elevator doors opened. The more I thought about it, the more I was sure if my older brother
had
bagged Nikki, I’d have heard about it. Talk about a braggart.

We stepped inside, and when the doors closed, I leaned closer, lowering my voice. “My brother’s an idiot if he didn’t notice you. Why don’t you let me make up for his mistake?”

“You’re too young for me, Patrick.” Her voice was equally low, and she didn’t make eye contact.

I rubbed a hand roughly through the top of my light brown hair. It hadn’t been cut since I left Chicago and still have the remnants of summer highlighting in the tips. “I need a trim. This makes me look younger.”

Nikki smiled as she studied me. “I like it. It’s sexy and summery.”

“I look like a frat boy.”

She laughed. “You look like my boss. Otherwise, it’s a very tempting offer.”

Our bodies were still close, and she turned back to the control panel. Heat radiated between us, and if I leaned slightly forward, I could take her lips. Soft at first, then deeper. “What are you? Thirty-two?”

“Rude!”

That made me laugh. “You started it!”

She exhaled, shaking her head and stepping away as the doors opened. “Add five and you win.”

I hung back, admiring how those capris hugged her ass. “Seven years is not that much older.”

“You’re only saying that because you’re horny.”

“You only live once.”

“Exactly.” She turned away from me and back to her computer. “Find a girl closer to your own age.”

At that I shrugged, “Suit yourself.”

Neither waiting nor begging was my style. She might change her mind with a little break to think about it, and in the meantime, I had to take care of my other problem. Opening my laptop, I typed in “Living Arts” and “tattoos.” A professional-looking website popped up, and I grabbed my phone, punching in the address.

This afternoon, I’d have the final evidence of my irritating past removed.

* * *

Living Arts Tattoo Parlor was located in what appeared to be the head part of town. It was squeezed between a shop that specialized in likely illegal pot paraphernalia and another that had nothing but crystals of all shapes and sizes hanging in the windows. It was nearly impossible to imagine Mr. Gucci Alexander coming here for anything.

Figuring I’d have to stay a few hours, I’d stopped by my apartment and changed into faded blue jeans and a T-shirt. When I’d had the tattoo put on, a biker chick and two inked-up guys cultivating the ex-con look had run that establishment. Entering Living Arts, I didn’t expect to see a petite girl—woman?—waiting behind the counter for the next customer.

Her skin was ivory-white and contrasted starkly with her artificially black hair and red-velvet lips. At first glance her hair appeared long and swept over her shoulder, but the closer I got, I realized it was actually cut short on one side, tapering off at an angle and down the other. Asymmetrical or whatever.

I was ready to dismiss her when she hit me with a pair of ice blue eyes that made my stomach tighten. They were beautiful, although when they met mine they narrowed and blinked down to the counter. Her lips pressed together into a frown.

I didn’t know what any of that meant, and I didn’t care.
Shit
, Nikki was right. I was too keyed up for my own good. Shaking it off, I glanced around to see who might work on my arm. A beefy skinhead covered in ink was chatting and working on another guy getting what looked like a full-back tat. They’d be a while. Nobody else was in the place, so I turned back to the girl.

“Hey,” I said and waited.

Her hands fluttered over a stack of papers on the counter, and she didn’t look up. “Can I help you?” Her voice was small but defiant.

She still wouldn’t look at me, so I allowed my eyes to travel over her thin body. Dark jeans were slung low on her hips, and they were so tight, they made her look like she had an ass, which I was pretty sure she didn’t. Above a thin strip of pale mid-drift she had on a black, transparent blouse that draped over one shoulder. A black tube top was underneath, and her skin was smooth and free of ink. Odd.

“Yeah,” I cleared my throat, double-checking for anyone else. “I have a reworking job for… somebody.”

That’s when her eyes met mine again, but now hers were confused. “Reworking?”

I gave her The Smile, and she blinked quickly away, seeming irritated. Ignoring her response, I stretched my arm out to her, palm up.

“I think there’s a rule that as soon as you get their name tattooed on you, it’s over.”

She studied the cursive
Stacy
on my inner forearm, and for whatever reason, that broke the ice slightly. Her red lips parted over straight white teeth. “What happened with Stacy?”

“Long story,” I said. “Can somebody help me?”

She exhaled as she leaned down then hefted a huge binder containing plastic-coated sheets onto the counter. Flipping large chunks over and over, she stopped in the back on a page of line drawings.

“I’d suggest turning it into a barbed wire band or maybe something Aztec.” Her slim finger pointed to one design. Short, neat nails painted black, of course. A silver band was on the thumb of her left hand. “This one’s pretty common, but I can do some variations to make it unique if you like.”

“You been doing this long?” I wasn’t sure it was such a great idea to get ink from a tattoo virgin.

She shook her head, keeping her eyes on the drawings. “I was a fine arts major in college. Then after…” Her throat cleared. “I needed a job. Carl showed me how to work the equipment.”

I noticed her near-slip, but let it pass. “A fine artist?”

“Yeah.”

“So I guess your biggest problem was fear of needles.”

“Oh, you don’t see the needle.” She was starting to relax and make eye contact more. Still there was something up with her, a guard or something. It had me curious. “It’s more like illustrating with an ink gun. The blood was the worst part for me.”

My arm flinched back at that. “I’ve never bled getting a tattoo.”

“It only happens once in a while.” Her silky hair swished over her right shoulder as her head moved. For a split second, I wished it was all there. The way the right side hung in long waves, I could tell she’d be pretty without her disguise on.

“I faint at the sight of blood.”

“At least you share the pain.” I teased, hoping to diffuse the remaining tension. “But let’s try and avoid that drama with me.”

“So you want me to do it?” She walked around the counter, and I got the full view—including the shoes. Her skinny jeans ended at black and brown, needle-thin stripper heels.

“Those are some shoes,” I said. “How tall are you for real?”

A little color appeared in her cheeks, and it softened her looks so much, I wanted to make it happen again. “Five foot.” She pulled out a sketch pad and wrote
Stacy
in almost the exact script of my arm.

“You’d make a good forger.”

The pink stayed on her cheeks, and in five more quick strokes, she’d turned it into a design that was completely unrecognizable as a name. Then she turned the pad toward me.