Page 14 of Sing For Me

Eva

Ipractice my breathing exercises while he’s out of the room. At this point, I’m not sure if I’m trying to stave off the nerves or if I’m trying to keep from losing my mind at the hotness that is Will-the-bearded-tattoo-artist.

It’s been a long time since I’ve felt the flutter of butterflies in my belly. At first, I wasn’t even sure what they were, they felt so foreign.

Usually when I’m in close proximity to a man—especially a man as big as Will—butterflies are the last thing that I feel. Body freezing fear is more like it.

And there was a moment where it almost turned in to that, out in the lobby of his shop. When I first turned and saw him standing there, towering over me, all I could think about was how big he was. Tall, with broad shoulders and massive hands that completely dwarfed mine when we shook hands.

But Marissa had helped ground me with just a touch, bringing me back to myself before it could get too bad.

A few months ago, she never would have been able to do that. Hell, a few months ago, I wouldn’t have been able to be in this little room with him. Alone. Even now, a little shot of panic runs through me as I wait.

Progress, not perfection,I tell myself. Isn’t that the point of this whole tattoo thing in the first place?

I’m in the middle of a deep, calming inhale when Will walks back into the room, and I practically choke on my tongue. God, he really is attractive. Totally not the kind of guy I normally go for. Will-the-bearded-tattoo-artist is bulky and tall. He’s got this badass kind of vibe to him—probably a result of the tattoos that peek out from the sleeves and neck of his shirt. Or maybe it’s his dark hair, short at the sides and long and messy on top, the kind of hair a woman can’t help wanting to run her fingers through. It could be the full beard. The black combat boots on his feet.

Or maybe it’s deeper than that. Some inherent characteristic that prevents him from caring about any of the bullshit the people in my life are constantly obsessing over. I get the feeling Will most definitely wouldn’t give a shit about whether or not my lipstick matched my dress—a subject my management team had once gone back and forth over fordays.

“Hanging in there?”

“Um. I. Yeah.” I need to pull myself together. I wonder if he can tell that I was totally checking him out just now. “I mean, yes. I’m fine. Nervous, but fine.”

He smiles, the warmth of it softening his badass looks. “It’s fine to be nervous. But I bet you’ll find it’s not nearly as painful as you think.”

I don’t have a problem with the idea of pain. Pain and I are well acquainted at this point.

“What does it feel like?”

“For me, it’s a stinging sensation. You ever have a sunburn?”

I hold up a red curl, gesturing at my pale complexion. “What do you think?”

He grins again, this time looking almost boyish. “It’s like if you scratch the skin of a sunburn. Not pleasant, but not unbearable.” He winces. “Unfortunately, the ankle does tend to be a more painful spot.”

“I can handle it.”

“’Course you can,” he says easily, like he has all the faith in the world in me, a stranger he just met. “How about you jump up on the table for me?

I freeze.Jumping upon anything isn’t such a simple action for me. I swallow and approach the table, wishing he would keep his head down while I struggle to get my ass up there. I can already tell it’s going to be an awkward move.

I place my hands on the leather cushioned top, trying to decide the best way to do this without embarrassing the hell out of myself. I can feel my breath getting shallower, and I squeeze my eyes shut.

Please, not now.

“You okay?”

“I…um. Have an injury.” Damn it. Why does this always have to get in the way of everything? Can’t I just have one measly day where I can crush on a cute boy and feel normal? “Jumping isn’t the easiest.”

He doesn’t respond for a second, and I feel the heat flooding my face. What’s he thinking? Maybe his eyes are scanning me, trying to figure out what the issue is.

Then I hear a scraping noise against the floor and suddenly Will is standing right next to me. “Step stool,” he says, like it’s no big deal. Sure enough, he’s pushed a small, two step ladder up against the table’s base. I swallow, overwhelmed with gratitude and embarrassment and fear that I’m about to fall apart.

“Thank you,” I mutter, throat thick, and climb up as quickly as I can, plopping down on my ass and swinging my legs over the side.

“No problem,” he murmurs, settling onto the rolling stool in front of me. I keep my head bent so he won’t see how red my cheeks are. Will pats the table next to me. “Can you bring your leg up here? That will be the easiest angle for me.”

I do what he says, still avoiding his eyes.