“No passion, no emotion, no originality—a train wreck of epic portions.”
Those were the words to describe Eve Thorton’s exhibition. Not even a fine arts degree from Yale or her daddy’s bank account could save her from the scathing reviews. And failure was a word Eve would never be comfortable with. Not even close.
Plotting the demise of every critic who’d written her off was her first instinct. But that would come later. Instead, she would show them that she wasn’t a bored socialite with more money than talent.
She would prove everyone wrong, and she wasn’t afraid to get her hands dirty. But when her journey for redemption crashed headfirst into Josh Logan, the sexy, talented tattooist from Queens, getting her hands dirty took on a whole new meaning.
Josh was everything Eve wasn’t, translating on skin what she couldn’t onto her canvas. All she had to do was convince him to share his jaw-dropping brilliance, and help her—seeing him naked—a bonus. Then she could go back to her regular life, vindicated.
It should have been easy. Pity her plans had a habit of derailing.
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Kitty had said Josh Logan was gorgeous.
Her description was tall, athletic and covered in exquisite wearable art.
With jet-black hair that was cropped short except for the top which he wore longer and combed back. Sort of like Elvis, but a thousand times hotter, and without the retro clothes.
So, I had been mentally prepared for a decent looking guy. But I had just shipped off all of Oliver’s stuff and scruffy guys with tattoos weren’t really my thing. Besides, I was here for a purpose, and that was not to get a date. I was a professional and this was New York, and gorgeous men were everywhere. It’s not like I was a bag of hormones incapable of using her head.
Yet all it took was a single freaking smile.
How it was even possible was beyond me, but Kitty severely understated.
Josh Logan was well over six-foot and built like a South American soccer player. You know the kind—hot, toned, and looked fabulous in their underwear on the side of a building. Sadly, Josh was wearing clothes—a fantastic pair of jeans and a black fitted T-shirt that hugged his arms and chest so lovingly it needed a standing ovation.
And those eyes? Wowzas. Perfect cerulean blue.
Tattoo Jesus was freaking HOT.
And another thing, his tattoos were insane. Each perfectly toned arm was covered in intricate designs that went all the way up into his sleeves where they were tragically hidden by his T-shirt. Then the color reappeared, snaking up his neckline. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to lick his skin or hang it on a wall. Oh, that sounded bad. Yeah. Hanging it on the wall sounded creepy. Licking. Licking was better.
I had been a locked vault. Kept it together and pretended he wasn’t the hottest man I’d seen. I’d even managed to carry on a conversation, completely hiding the fact my panties had disintegrated the minute he’d walked into the room. That, my friends, was where the real talent was.
About T. Gephart