rarely told people what she did for a living. Unless they came into the studio where she worked, people never assumed Reyna was any more than she appeared: a slightly boring, nice girl. Not that being a tattoo artist exempted her from being boring. Once people found out her job, men in particular, they only wanted to know one thing. Or maybe two. And they always assumed she had some hidden pain kink or was a bad girl looking for a bad boy.
“How unique,” Garrison said. “I’m sure your work is some of the most beautiful in the city.”
She warmed again at his compliment. And at his unexpected reaction to her job. It was such a very different reaction from the one she’d gotten from her ex-husband, someone who had known her for most of her adult life. With Garrison’s thoughtful silence, she drifted into the past to the one and only time she’d been in the same place with Ian after the divorce.
One night, he had wandered into her tattoo studio from off the busy nighttime street. Reyna was in her zone, the buzz of the needle vibrating between her fingers as she sat on a chair working on the large trail of red poppies a pale-skinned client wanted down her spine.
The bell above the door rang, announcing that someone had walked in, but she didn’t pay much attention since she was already occupied. A hum of excitement began in the shop. Then she heard Ian’s voice and couldn’t stop herself from freezing up in automatic rejection of him being in her space.
He walked in like a big TV star, attracting the attention of everyone in the shop, signing autographs and pretending not to see her. But eventually, he hadn’t been able to help himself and walked over to her sectioned-off area.
Ian jerked his chin in her direction. “I bet you’re into bondage and all kinds of sick garbage now. You want a man to tie you up and make you bleed?”
Reyna continued her work, even when she felt her client’s body tense with interest at Ian’s proximity. She’d had months of practice keeping herself centered and calm. He drifted into her field of vision, but she acted as if he wasn’t there.
Among other things, he called her a pain slut, ready for torture and blood at the hands of a lover. She focused on the tattoo gun in her hand, the red poppies taking shape beneath the needle.
Her nonresponsiveness worked perfectly. He never came by the studio again.
Reyna returned from her reverie to find Garrison watching her closely with his usual unreadable expression.
“Tattooing is not my passion,” she said for want of some sort of barrier between them. “But it’s an amazing thing to walk around the city sometimes and see a client with my work on their body.”
“I can only imagine how satisfying that would be.” Garrison looked down the mountain, and Reyna followed his gaze.
Snow and fresh powder, nothing but cold white for miles. His hobby, or passion. Another surprise between them.
“You should go,” she said. “Don’t waste this. It won’t last long.”
She didn’t know if she was talking about the snow or the weekend or life.
“You’re right,” Garrison said. “Nothing really lasts, does it?” His intent eyes settled on her again. “All the more reason to enjoy it while you can instead of looking ahead to its end.”
Her mouth curled into a smile. “You can think of it that way, yes.”
He nodded as if he’d decided something. “I’ll be seeing you again, Ms. Allen.”
She watched him click back onto his snowboard, pull on his thick gloves and mask and lower his goggles. He seemed alien and untouchable against the landscape that was all sunlight, the cheerful dip of the evergreens, a clear blue sky. All around she heard the joyful shouts of people enjoying themselves in the snow.
“Until then.” She dipped her head in his direction.
He scudded down the mountain, kicking up snow in his wake, the movement of his dark shape on the bright snow pulling an aching cord in her belly. She drew in a breath at the warm feeling. No. She did not want this.
It was one thing to find him attractive. It was another entirely to find herself actually attracted to him. The subtle humor in his long-lashed eyes. His masculine scent. The fact that he wasn’t as boring and arrogant as she expected. Reyna swallowed thickly, and she watched him fly away from her. She had a feeling she was about to get herself in trouble.
* * *
Reyna spent another couple of hours sketching and enjoying her semi-isolation before her friends came back and dragged her from her mountain perch for sledding and impromptu drinks with some men they’d met on the slopes. Ahmed Clark was not among these eligible bachelors, but Bridget was happy enough.
Later on, in the cabin and under the influence of the hot toddies Louisa made, her friends tried to go back to the subject of Garrison Richards. But Reyna steered them toward something else. Louisa smirked, her look telling Reyna that she couldn’t avoid her feelings for the lawyer, or her discussion of them, for too much longer. But whatever respite she had, Reyna would gladly take. Garrison made her feel too uneasy, overheated and uncomfortable for her to talk about him just yet. Even to her closest friends.
They stayed up until late, talking about life and love and everything in between. At a little past three in the morning, the women all pled exhaustion, even Bridget. Reyna, however, was still wide awake. She didn’t need much sleep, and working at the tattoo studio, which was open until 4:00 a.m. some Saturdays, she was used to going to bed as late as six in the morning.
After her friends went to bed, she couldn’t slow down her mind. She couldn’t stop thinking about Garrison and his snow-flecked flight down the mountain. She couldn’t stop thinking about his smell. Spicy and masculine, like a long and back-bending night in a warm bed.
It was as if he was still next to her, body crowding her on the couch, inflaming her late-night imagination with thoughts of what it would be like to kiss him. Wondering what harm there would be to allow him this chase at the resort, allow him to catch her and be with her away from real life in the city.
The more her body marinated in thoughts of having him, the more her brain shouted at her to stop being so stupid. He wasn’t a good person. He was just as bad as Ian, maybe worse.
Her thoughts grew clamorous, too loud and too shameful to be cooped up in the cabin with so many sleeping souls. She got up from the couch and dampened the fire, pulled on her snow gear and stepped out into the cold.
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