Echoes of Scotland Street (On Dublin Street 5)

I felt awful as soon as she finished speaking. Absolutely, truly awful.

“I don’t respect players like you. I don’t like you. I don’t trust you. There’s nothing behind that charming smile but empty promises. You have nothing real to offer me or anyone who finds herself a victim of your flirtation. The difference between them and me, however, is that I’m smart enough to see you for what you really are . . . Nothing.”

“Forget the hilariously random analogy that didn’t even make a lot of sense but totally did anyway. What the hell are you talking about?”

“Cole. Bad boy.”

“Right.”

“What?”

“Nothing. I’ll let you figure this one out on your own, you bloody numb nut.”

I squeezed my eyes shut tight at the memories. “I am such a bitch.”

Feeling Hannah’s hand resting on my arm, I opened my eyes to find her staring at me with a surprising amount of kindness. “Somehow I don’t believe that’s true.”

And on that enigmatic comment she walked away, leaving me to drown my guilt in a large glass of red wine.

CHAPTER 8

O nce when I was ten I had helped my granddad throw out some old things because Gran was doing her yearly spring clean and somehow Granddad’s belongings always ended up taking the brunt of the clear-out.

My granddad had books everywhere. I remembered grabbing books that were piled randomly in the corner of the sitting room and asking him if they were to be thrown out. His response was an immediate and very adamant no. I made a face and asked him why since no one else had probably even heard of the books with their very boring covers. Granddad had tutted at me and told me that inside the books were the best stories he’d ever read, and that I shouldn’t judge them solely on their bad marketing.

I hadn’t really understood at the time, but I guessed he was quite literally telling me not to judge a book by its cover.

An old cliché.

A cliché it might have been but one lesson I should never have forgotten. After Hannah’s revelations about Cole’s true character, I left his party quickly. I barely slept that night¸ consumed with guilt for judging Cole on what happened to be bad marketing from my perspective. Amid the guilt was regret and something bigger. Something a little like panic.

*   *   *

The next day at work I didn’t know how I was supposed to act around Cole. It seemed it was back to business as usual for him, because he didn’t come out to greet me when I pushed open the front door of the studio.

Simon did, looking a little worse for wear as he took his coffee from me. “Thank fuck,” he muttered. “I started in on the whisky after five beers last night.” He took a sip of his coffee and frowned at me. “Where did you run off to?”

I shrugged, already uncomfortable. “Home. Headache.”

He gave me an incredulous look.

With a heavy sigh I told him the truth. “I think I may have made some not very nice assumptions about Cole.”

“Has this got anything to do with the cold war between you two?”

I nodded. “And now I don’t know how to fix it.”

“Why not start with just being nice to him?”

“Nice?”

“Nice.”

Not sure how to go about making that change after being such a bitch, I looked down at my coffee to avoid Simon’s gaze. I felt ashamed of my behavior these last few weeks. How the heck did I go about trying to make amends?

I contemplated my coffee. “What does Cole drink?”

Simon chuckled. “A cortado. One sugar.”

“The coffee shop is right around the corner,” I mused.

“It is.” Simon grinned. “I’ll man the desk for you.”

I returned his smile with a grateful one of my own before shrugging into my jacket and hurrying out to the coffee shop. Not even five minutes later I was back in the studio. As soon as I stepped inside with Cole’s cortado, Simon winked at me and left the reception for his workroom.

I looked down at Cole’s coffee and felt the butterflies in my belly go wild. Bolstering myself against nerves, I threw my shoulders back and headed toward the workrooms.

Stopping in the doorway of Cole’s room, I almost completely lost my nerve. He was sitting with one ankle resting on the opposite knee, his sketch pad on his lap, and his head bent, as he concentrated on what he was drawing.

He was really handsome. I knew this. I’d known this from the moment I met him, but that feeling was back—that feeling I’d had when I was fifteen years old and I was staring up into his green eyes in absolute delight. That feeling you get when you realize something special about another person and he goes from being attractive to downright kick-you-in-the-gut good-looking.

I’d learned a lot about Cole in the last few days.

He was so damn kick-you-in-the-gut good-looking now.

Catching sight of me out of the corner of his eye, Cole lifted his head in surprise.

In response to his silent question I took two steps forward and thrust the coffee at him.

He raised an eyebrow. The gesture was too sexy for words.

My hand trembled.

Cole watched the coffee cup shake with the tremor and reached out to take it from me.

Once it was in his hand I backed out of the room and practically fled down the hall.

Standing at my desk, taking in a ragged breath, I inwardly berated myself for being quite possibly the most uncool person to have ever worked in a tattoo studio.

*   *   *

Not even ten minutes later I had to find the nerve to face Cole again because he had a customer. I informed him of this with a warmer politeness than usual, and I could feel his curious gaze on my back as he followed me out into the reception area.