His shorts were nylon, like basketball shorts or something, but he didn’t look like a basketball player. Did basketball players have a look? Maybe that was one of my judgy moments. I tried not to have them, I really did, but sometimes it was hard, which I definitely would be too—hard, I meant—if I didn’t quit looking at Tattoo Guy.
Did that stop me? Nope. I couldn’t make my eyes focus on anything but the piercings at first—lip, eyebrow, ear. I shivered because how could that not hurt? Did I mention he had great lips? Wow, did he have an awesome mouth. I’d never been into the whole bad-boy thing, but I had to admit, he was hot.
“Does someone else have a key?” I sputtered out, realizing I’d been staring for who knew how long.
“Huh? No. Just me and you that I know of.”
“Because you said I must be her grandson, instead of just hi, Wilma Allen’s grandson, since you don’t know my name. That made me wonder if someone else had a key.”
He stared at me, his dark brows pulled together like he wasn’t sure what to say or think. I got that response a lot, but instead of asking a question or continuing to gawk at me like I’d sprouted another head, he just gave me a slow, lazy smile and said, “What’s up, Wilma Allen’s grandson? I’m Gideon Barlow. I rent the space from you next door and an apartment upstairs.”
He held his hand out, bags between us, and wow, I couldn’t believe he’d just gone with the flow like that. Even if others did, they still gave me a look that told me they thought something was wrong with me, but Tattoo Guy didn’t.
My gaze shot down to his hand. It was nice, strong-looking, with lots of veins. Who knew veins were my thing? I certainly hadn’t. It was weird that they were even a thing that could be hot.
Tattoo Guy dropped his arm. Shit. I’d waited too long. I hadn’t reached for him, and now he’d think I was rude and, “You’re very attractive.” I smacked a hand over my mouth the second the words came out. Why in the hell had I told him that? Yes, I thought the truth was important and wanted more people to say how they felt, but I also didn’t like fighting and really didn’t want to get beaten up. I knew karate—Mom made me take lessons so I could defend myself—so I could probably incapacitate him before he could hurt me, but I didn’t want to. I didn’t like violence. “I would appreciate it if you didn’t punch me. I should have figured out if you’re homophobic before I complimented you, and why is that what they call it anyway? Shouldn’t it be homojudgmental? Or I don’t know, just an asshole?” Great. I was rambling.
Tattoo Guy gave me another slow, easy smile. He was very good at those. He must practice them a lot. “I can promise I won’t punch you, and I’m definitely not homophobic—though I probably had a little bit of internalized homophobia when I was a kid. Also, thank you. You’re very attractive too.”
Wait. Did he just… Was he… “Internalized? That means you’re…”
“I am.” He crossed his arms. “You’re not going to punch me now, right?”
“What? No!” I said before it hit me that he was joking. “I think we should really shake hands this time.”
“I think we should too.” For the second time, he held his hand out and again introduced himself. “I’m Gideon Barlow.”
“Milo Copeland. Please don’t ever call me Mr. Copeland. I hate it. But I might call you Tattoo Guy sometimes. If you hate it, I’ll try not to, but that’s who you’ve been in my head, so it’ll take me a while to get used to Gideon. Plus, you do have a lot of tattoos.” He barked out a loud laugh. Sometimes when people did that, it felt like they were laughing at me, but it didn’t with Tattoo Guy. Gideon. “Your name is kinda different.”
“I’ve heard that before. Have I been in your head a lot?” The right side of his mouth kicked up.
I frowned. “Huh? No…oh.” That sounded like the guys in porn when they were—“Was that flirting? Oh my God. I think it was, which is strange. I don’t even know you, and well, I guess I told you I think you’re attractive, but wow. I’m not sure I’ve ever been flirted with before. Or are you just being friendly?”
“Actually, I’m not sure,” Tattoo Guy replied without hesitation. “Friendly and flirty? Flirt-ly? It just sort of happened.”
The sea of bags separated us, and I suddenly got even hotter. Great, good-looking guys made the weather worse. This was going to be a problem for me…and I had so much to do. The last thing I should be worried about was attractive tattooed guys who lived in my apartment and had a shop next to mine. “We should probably talk at some point, but right now, I’d like to look at my bookstore. And according to Chester—whom I’m not sure you’ve met, but he’s an odd guy—Wilma Allen maybe had a lover. I need to call him. Do you know anything about him?”