Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 84407 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 422(@200wpm)___ 338(@250wpm)___ 281(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84407 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 422(@200wpm)___ 338(@250wpm)___ 281(@300wpm)
I tie my red and black flannel around my waist before I pull the hair tie from my ponytail. I let my hair fall around my shoulders and shake it out with my fingers. Good enough.
I leave the bathroom and go back to the front desk, where Dare is waiting for me. I’m not boy crazy. I don’t swoon or lose my mind when an attractive guy comes along. Looks don’t matter much to me—I know firsthand that some of the most beautiful people are ugly on the inside—but Dare is on another level. His inky black hair is perfectly disheveled like it was on Halloween, and I have the urge to run my fingers through it. He’s tall, probably a good eight inches taller than my five foot three. His eyes seem impossibly blue, his jaw sharp. Thick, black eyebrows. Full bottom lip, the top one slightly thinner.
But the sexiest thing about Dare isn’t physical. It’s in the way he carries himself. His intensity. His give-no-fucks attitude. I may not be drawn to a pretty face, but like a typical girl, I am drawn to a challenge. He’s closed off and mysterious and kind of cranky, so why do I want to be the one to crack the shell and get under his skin?
He gives me an appraising look, his eyes lingering on my cleavage for half a second, then clears his throat. I get a sick sense of satisfaction to know he’s affected by me, too, if only a little.
“I’m going to warn you now. Your title as a receptionist? It’s a little misleading. What I need you for goes way beyond that.”
I arch a brow at him.
“Not that far, smart ass.”
I laugh and move behind the counter next to him.
“You’ll be in charge of scheduling, answering phones, greeting customers, payments, and all that shit. But what we really need help with is keeping everything clean, sterilizing our stations, setting up and breaking down stations, cleaning, offering the clients water or reading material, cleaning, taking photos for our albums, cleaning, grabbing stuff for the artists when we need it, cleaning…”
“A lot of cleaning. Got it.”
“A clean shop is a happy shop. No one wants to get tattooed in some haggard ass tattoo parlor.”
“Not really a good look,” I agree.
“Exactly.”
Dare clicks around on the computer.
“This is called InkBook. It’s what you’ll use for scheduling, client records, online bookings and confirmations, payroll, everything.”
He walks me through the program, step by step, telling me it’s “just like QuickBooks,” whatever that is. I should be writing this down. I’m going to forget every single thing he says in approximately seven seconds. I’m halfway tempted to pull out my phone and record the whole thing, but somehow, I don’t think he’d appreciate that.
I can’t help but stare at his colorful arms, and his big veiny hand as he grips the mouse, and the way his long, thick finger clicks it, his eyebrows cinched together in deep concentration, the inky black strand of hair that fell in front of his eye, and the tattoo that peeks out from the collar of his T-shirt. Get it together, Lo. Have I not learned my lesson? Eric was the last person to affect me and look how that ended up.
After he finishes teaching me how to use the software, he shows me how to set a station up. There are covers for every goddamn thing, and nearly everything is good for one use only. Then, he introduces me to the guys.
“Guys, this is Lo. Lo, this is Alec and Matty. You know Cam and Cordell.” Dare points to each one. They’re standing around the pool table, not a client in sight.
“Wait, are you…?” I trail off, looking at the one with blond hair that reminds me of the guy from Sons of Anarchy, tattoos clear up to his jaw.
“Another fan girl?” the one with the golden-brown skin and backwards fitted hat asks—Matty, I think, and I look to Dare in confusion.
“Nah.” Dare chuckles, looking down at me. “Not even on her radar.”
“Fan girl? I was going to ask if they were brothers.” They look alike, but I didn’t realize how similar until they stood next to each other.
“My bad. Cam is a pro snowboarder. And yes, they’re brothers,” Matty informs me. What’s up with this town? Apparently, River’s Edge loves snowboarders like Oakland loves the Raiders.
“Ah,” I say, rocking on my heels. “And that’s like…a big deal?” I don’t mean anything by the question, but they all seem to think it’s hilarious.
“Little bit,” Matty says. “Chicks around here dig that shit.” He smirks, twisting the pool stick between his fingers before he bends over and takes his shot.
“Oh.”
“I like her,” the lean pale guy with plugs in his ears and hair sculpted into the perfect pompadour announces. He’s wearing a white tee with suspenders and cuffed jeans. Very vintage. Very rockabilly. The process of elimination tells me he’s Alec.