Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 89572 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 299(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89572 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 299(@300wpm)
In here, she looks smaller than I expected—then again, everyone looks small next to me. The black velvet dress hides her curves, though not well enough to fool my eyes. A crow brooch glitters at her chest, black and silver catching the overhead lights.
“Hi.” Her lips twitch into a warm, almost shy smile. Pink, full. She blushes like she’s walked into a designer boutique she can’t afford instead of a prison built of ink, iron, and ghosts. “Are you the owner?”
My eyes drop to the crow brooch. Shiny and coy little bird—kind of like her.
I grunt. “Depends who’s asking.”
“Emery Corbin.” She sets her bag down on my counter with a clunk. “Investigative journalist. Or YouTube pest, depending on your perspective.”
Pest. Definitely a pest. I glare at her. “You’re the one here to mock the town.”
Her brows arch. “Mock? No. Investigate? Absolutely.”
Same thing.
“You sell a sort of folklore, right?” she asks, sweeping a hand at the walls. “Tattoos are basically permanent souvenirs. Stories under the skin. I thought maybe you’d talk to me about the local legends. I’m particularly interested in the Ironbound Rider and the Weeping Widow stories.”
“No.”
She blinks. “No?”
“That’s what I said.”
Her laugh is quick, surprised. Cuts right through me. “You don’t like interviews?”
“Nope.”
“Oh.” She tilts her head, sizing me up. “Funny. You look like the kind of guy who’d love attention.”
How wrong you are, little bird.
I cross my arms over my chest and continue glaring at her. She doesn’t flinch.
“What’s with the crow?” I nod at the pin.
“They’re my favorite bird.” She glances down, fingers brushing over the glittering black stones. “Did you know crows can remember human faces for years? They even warn each other about people they don’t like. My channel’s called The Curious Crow.”
She widens her eyes, as if she’s waiting for a flicker of recognition.
I keep my expression blank. “Curiosity kills, or haven’t you heard?”
She slowly raises her gaze to the ceiling, like she can’t believe she’s dealing with such an uncreative dumbass.
Her eyes drop back to mine. A shade of blue so faded they’re close to the winter sky. “And satisfaction brought it back. Come on, that line’s older than your shop. Be more original.”
My jaw ticks. “Not here to be entertaining.”
“You’re here to be rude, then?”
“When needed.”
She blows out a breath, lips twisting with annoyance. “I’ve been called worse than rude myself. Usually by men who think I ask too many questions.”
“You do.”
Her perfectly arched eyebrows draw together. For a second her confidence falters. “How can you say that? You’ve known me all of thirty seconds.”
“That’s plenty.”
A flash of hurt crosses her expression.
Did I go too far? The question lodges heavy in my chest. I usually don’t give a fuck about bruising anyone’s feelings. But the thought of being responsible for snuffing out the spark in her eyes is intolerable. I don’t even want to consider why.
She needs to go. It’s too dangerous for her to ask these questions.
“Unless you want to make an appointment.” I nod toward the posters on the wall—unimaginative flash pieces I churn out for tourists. “Or talk about an original design you’d like me to draw up for you. Otherwise, I’m busy.”
She lifts her chin and laughs, brittle at the edges. Covering. Still, the sound hooks under my ribs. My tattoos flare hot, hungry, like they want to drag the real thing out of her.
I need her to leave.
But I want her to stay.
She studies me, eyes narrowing like she’s planning her next line of attack. Then her mouth tilts. “Has anyone ever pointed out that you try way too hard to be scary?”
My jaw locks. “Is that so?”
“Yup.” She nods once. “The scowl. Crossed arms. Gravelly voice.” She lifts her hand and ticks off each offense on her fingers one by one. “It kinda gives the impression you googled ‘badass biker’ and checked each item off the list.” She tilts her head and asks sweetly, “Do you practice in front of a mirror?”
The corner of my mouth twitches, betraying me before I can lock it down. I smother my amusement with a grunt.
Her smile sharpens into victory. “Careful,” she teases. “You almost looked human for a nanosecond.”
“Guess I slipped,” I mutter.
Her smile falters, quick as a blink.
I shift my weight, suddenly restless. I don’t enjoy her laughing at me. But I don’t like her looking at me with her sad little kitten eyes either.
She lifts her chin, back to defiant. “Well, if thirty seconds was enough for you to judge me, why can’t I do the same?”
My brow pulls tight. “Are you looking for some ink or not?”
“Hmmm...” She rests her elbow on the counter, tilts her head like she’s dissecting my every micro-movement. “Grumpy. Bossy. Probably allergic to small talk. And definitely hiding something.”
I snort. “Such an expert.”
Her lips curve. “Sharp instincts. Comes with the job.”