Quinn Thomas thought she knew what forever looked like.
Five years with the town’s golden boy should have meant security, stability, and a future already mapped out. Instead, it leaves her standing alone in a gravel driveway with a broken heart, and the quiet realization that maybe she’s been settling for less than she deserves.
Damien Grey has been watching from the sidelines for years. The numbers guy at House of Ink. The quiet one. The man everyone underestimates.
But Damien has always seen Quinn clearly and he’s been waiting patiently for the moment she finally sees herself the same way he does.
When her relationship crashes in the most public way possible, Damien steps forward, not to rush her, not to pressure her, but to show her what real loyalty, real friendship, and real love actually look like.
Because sometimes the right man isn’t the loudest voice in the room. Sometimes he’s the one who’s been there all along, waiting for his chance to love you right.
And this time? Damien isn’t waiting.
I’m halfway through pulling my t-shirt over my head when the door to the back room swings open.
“Skye said the extra paper towels were…” Quinn stops mid-sentence and I fucking freeze.
For a full two seconds neither of us moves. Which would be fine if I wasn’t standing in the middle of the supply room shirtless. Completely. Shirtless.
“Uh,” she says.
My brain, which normally functions like a well-organized spreadsheet, suddenly forgets how to process basic information.
“Oh,” I say intelligently.
Brilliant response. Ten out of ten.
She blinks and I blink. Somewhere behind us, the faint buzz of tattoo machines continues like nothing weird is happening. Except something very weird is happening.
Because Quinn Thomas is staring at my chest like she’s just discovered a new species of animal. Which technically isn’t wrong.
Most people in town have no idea I’m tattooed. The art across my skin isn’t visible when I’m wearing clothes. But right now? Right now, it’s very visible. The black and gray ink across my chest and ribs tells a story most people never see. A phoenix spreads its wings across my sternum, flames curling down my ribs. Lines of intricate geometric work run along my sides, disappearing beneath the waistband of my jeans.
And my back? That’s an entire mural. But luckily she can’t see that part at the moment. And yet, her eyes are wide, like she’s trying to process the fact that the quiet accountant apparently moonlights as a walking art exhibit.
“Paper towels,” she says again weakly.
“Right.”
I grab my shirt off the counter behind me and pull it over my head as quickly as possible. Smooth. Very fucking smooth.
When I look back at her, she’s still standing in the doorway holding the edge of the frame like she’s not sure if she should stay or run.
“Sorry,” she says quickly.
“You didn’t know.”
“Skye said they were in here.”
“They are.” I gesture vaguely toward the shelves behind me.
She steps inside slowly and suddenly the tension in the room is thick enough to cut with a knife. Or maybe that’s just my imagination.
Quinn grabs a roll of paper towels from the shelf but doesn’t immediately leave. Instead, she turns back toward me and her eyes drop to my chest again. Her gaze traces the lines of ink across my skin before she catches herself and looks away, cheeks just a hint pinker than before. When her eyes meet mine again, there’s a flicker of something … curiosity, maybe, or something warmer. “You’re … tattooed.”
Understatement of the year. “A little.”
“A little?”
