painted—some were dismantled, with various parts appearing to be sanded down, no paint at all; other pieces had coats of solid color on them. A couple were fully assembled and looked more complete—one displaying an artistically perfect pair of dice and the words S nake E yes up above.
That’s when she finally understood. The motorcycles she’d heard roaring up here at all hours—they weren’t necessarily Lucky’s friends; they were his customers. At least some of them.
And then his arm—the one closest to her—flexed again and she had the opportunity to make out another of his tattoos. Below the chain, on his forearm: playing cards. Aces over eights. The legendary dead man’s hand.
And for some reason, it gave her the shivers. Of course, they were only cards, but added to the grim reaper on his other arm, she had to wonder . . . was Lucky Romo obsessed with death? Had he been . . . near it or something? Or was it about losing his sister so tragically all those years ago?
She swallowed uncomfortably at the dark thoughts, and—once more—at the recollection that he had a mysterious and potentially frightening past. And that . . . well, if she was honest with herself, his present was really just as mysterious and potentially frightening. Wasn’t it?
It was suddenly easy to forget about that as she watched him making art on bikes, running a respectable-looking business. And it was easy to tell herself he was misunderstood just because he’d deigned to flirt with her a couple of times and had helped her find Mr. Knightley. But the harsh reality, for some reason hitting her hard right now, was that she didn’t know any more about him than Mike did, and that almost everything about him was a question mark.
Maybe Mike was right—maybe she should stay away from him.
Knowing what he’d been through in his youth, wondering what he’d been through as an adult—she felt suddenly, undeniably, torn. Between being safe and taking a risk. Between choosing to believe he was . . . good, somehow reformed—or accepting what she’d been avoiding: the fact that Mike was probably a better judge of his own brother than she was, even all these years later.
“What’s up, hot stuff?”
The greeting shook her from her reverie with a flinch. Swell. Every single time she saw him, she acted like a basket case. So she made a fresh effort to appear very together and at ease. But when she met his alluring gaze, it became more difficult. “I’m here for our appointment.”
“Thought maybe you just came to watch me paint.”
Great—he’d known she was there the whole time. “This time I was trying not to scare you . Didn’t want to mess you up.”
He’d stooped down now, on eye level with what he’d just painted, inspecting his work. He didn’t bother looking her way as he said, “Takes more than a pretty girl to mess me up, babe.”
Oh. My. She was a pretty girl. And he was calling her babe. And most times in her life she would have found that way too familiar from a guy she barely knew, but just like so much with Lucky, it somehow made her tingle in all the right—or would that be the wrong?—places.
She stepped closer to him, still nervous as usual but trying very hard to, at last, be bold. Or at least normal. “I liked watching you work,” she told him. “I had no idea motorcycle paint could be so elaborate.”
He still didn’t smile, but he did glance up at her now, looking quietly pleased by the compliment. “Thanks.”
And, as always, finding it hard to meet his eyes for long, she drew hers away, and they landed on another tattoo—this one an emblem of sorts, above the chain. Inside the emblem were inked words: Ride To Live, Live To Ride. She bit her lip, pleased this tattoo wasn’t about death, and also intrigued. “It’s that great, huh?” she asked, pointing at the shape near his shoulder.
Lucky rose back up to tower over her, the move reminding her how big he was.
That’s when she finally understood. The motorcycles she’d heard roaring up here at all hours—they weren’t necessarily Lucky’s friends; they were his customers. At least some of them.
And then his arm—the one closest to her—flexed again and she had the opportunity to make out another of his tattoos. Below the chain, on his forearm: playing cards. Aces over eights. The legendary dead man’s hand.
And for some reason, it gave her the shivers. Of course, they were only cards, but added to the grim reaper on his other arm, she had to wonder . . . was Lucky Romo obsessed with death? Had he been . . . near it or something? Or was it about losing his sister so tragically all those years ago?
She swallowed uncomfortably at the dark thoughts, and—once more—at the recollection that he had a mysterious and potentially frightening past. And that . . . well, if she was honest with herself, his present was really just as mysterious and potentially frightening. Wasn’t it?
It was suddenly easy to forget about that as she watched him making art on bikes, running a respectable-looking business. And it was easy to tell herself he was misunderstood just because he’d deigned to flirt with her a couple of times and had helped her find Mr. Knightley. But the harsh reality, for some reason hitting her hard right now, was that she didn’t know any more about him than Mike did, and that almost everything about him was a question mark.
Maybe Mike was right—maybe she should stay away from him.
Knowing what he’d been through in his youth, wondering what he’d been through as an adult—she felt suddenly, undeniably, torn. Between being safe and taking a risk. Between choosing to believe he was . . . good, somehow reformed—or accepting what she’d been avoiding: the fact that Mike was probably a better judge of his own brother than she was, even all these years later.
“What’s up, hot stuff?”
The greeting shook her from her reverie with a flinch. Swell. Every single time she saw him, she acted like a basket case. So she made a fresh effort to appear very together and at ease. But when she met his alluring gaze, it became more difficult. “I’m here for our appointment.”
“Thought maybe you just came to watch me paint.”
Great—he’d known she was there the whole time. “This time I was trying not to scare you . Didn’t want to mess you up.”
He’d stooped down now, on eye level with what he’d just painted, inspecting his work. He didn’t bother looking her way as he said, “Takes more than a pretty girl to mess me up, babe.”
Oh. My. She was a pretty girl. And he was calling her babe. And most times in her life she would have found that way too familiar from a guy she barely knew, but just like so much with Lucky, it somehow made her tingle in all the right—or would that be the wrong?—places.
She stepped closer to him, still nervous as usual but trying very hard to, at last, be bold. Or at least normal. “I liked watching you work,” she told him. “I had no idea motorcycle paint could be so elaborate.”
He still didn’t smile, but he did glance up at her now, looking quietly pleased by the compliment. “Thanks.”
And, as always, finding it hard to meet his eyes for long, she drew hers away, and they landed on another tattoo—this one an emblem of sorts, above the chain. Inside the emblem were inked words: Ride To Live, Live To Ride. She bit her lip, pleased this tattoo wasn’t about death, and also intrigued. “It’s that great, huh?” she asked, pointing at the shape near his shoulder.
Lucky rose back up to tower over her, the move reminding her how big he was.
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