Total pages in book: 64
Estimated words: 61100 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 306(@200wpm)___ 244(@250wpm)___ 204(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 61100 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 306(@200wpm)___ 244(@250wpm)___ 204(@300wpm)
I pass the remaining cup to Mace, who gives me a nod of thanks. I don’t want to sound as though I don’t respect their work, but I reply with an honest answer. “No, I’ve never considered it.”
“So much virgin skin,” Mace says as he shamelessly checks out my body.
“Virgin?” Between my legs, my inner muscles clench at the mention of the word.
“He’s just referring to the fact that you don’t have any ink on your body, Rose.” Hutch explains. His use of my name sends a shot of warmth straight up my back.
“Oh, okay.” Now that I’ve learned that they’re not familial brothers, other questions come to mind. “I hope I’m remembering all of your names right,” I say. “Hutch.” I point to him, and I’m already sure of his name since he was the most talkative yesterday, by far.
I spin to my left, pointing again. “Christian …” Then more tentatively, “Zipper.” When I get back to the fourth man, I hesitate. I think I have his name right, but I don’t want to offend him if I’m wrong.
“Mace,” Hutch reminds me.
“Right, Mace. I’ve never known anyone else with that name. I like it.” Mace might be a bit younger than the others. Though his hairline is receding slightly, I don’t see any gray in his brown hair, and his face is fuller than the other men’s, giving him a more youthful look.
“And Zipper,” I say, turning again to where Zipper’s now come out from behind the counter to stand around me with the other men. “If I’m not being too nosy, how did you get that name?”
His hand goes to the front of his jeans, and my cheeks burn. Why did I ask? Now all I can think about is the zipper on his pants and what lies behind it.
“Last name’s Zipp,” he says.
I nod and send up a silent prayer that my face is not half as red as it feels. “Ah, okay.”
“We’re both named John,” Hutch says, “so we go by our last names, though Zipper was already using that name when I met him.”
“You’re John Hutch?”
“Hutchinson,” he says.
“I really like the music in here,” I tell him. A song by Alice In Chains is playing now. “Which one of you chooses it?”
Hutch swallows a gulp from his coffee cup and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, bringing my focus to his lips. “We worked on the playlist together.”
“Mostly Hutch,” Zipper says, frowning even while he eats one of his cookies. How can someone frown while eating a cookie?
“You’re awfully young to know this music,” Hutch says.
Awfully young—is that how they see me? Probably. I’m definitely younger than them, and I’m a virgin when it comes to tattoos. The music is before my time, and if it wasn’t for my college roommate, I’d probably never have listened to grunge and alternative rock. I didn’t like it at first, but I discovered that the moody angst running through most of it actually made me feel better. After a while, I got hooked.
“And you must have been running around an elementary school playground when these songs were popular,” I say.
Hutch laughs, a deep rumble that sends a shot of warmth to my core, but the other men are stone-faced.
“How old are you, anyway?” Curiosity may have killed the cat, but luckily, I am not a feline.
One of Hutch’s brows lift, and I fear I may have pushed my questioning too far, but after a moment, he says, “Forty-two.”
I hope that I keep my expression neutral, but I am surprised. The number is higher than I thought.
“The others aren’t forty yet,” he continues, “but they’re getting close.”
“Hey, I’m only thirty-seven,” Mace says, acting as though he’s offended by Hutch’s comment.
“He’s the baby,” Hutch says, which deepens the scowl on Mace’s face. There is nothing childlike about the man, not at all.
“How old are you?” Zipper asks, and I immediately regret bringing up the topic.
“Twenty-three,” I say as I inwardly cringe. I have no business finding these men so attractive. I’m so much younger than them, and they’re even older than my brother, who’s already six years older than me. Forty-two. Hutch must think I’m a child.
“I’d better let you get back to work,” I say. “Thanks for your order.”
“See you tomorrow, Rose.”
I wish I didn’t like hearing Hutch say my name as much as I do.
I’m still thinking about the tattoo artists that night when I’m working at Club Red, and I don’t know why.
I wouldn’t say I really have a type, but if I did, none of them would be it. I usually fall for someone’s personality first, and none of the four men give me the warm fuzzies. Hutch is the only one who says much of anything, and he’s pretty gruff himself. But I’m clearly attracted to them; there’s no denying it, no matter how little sense it makes.