Debts (2 page)

That stricken look on Miriam’s face when he reentered the café disturbs him. Her eyes, always large and dark, were filled with some murky emotion. It couldn’t be about the call—there’s no way she could know—though Miriam does have a strange habit of knowing things she shouldn’t have any way of knowing.

He reaches for his phone and then sets it down again. He drums his fingers, twitchy and unusually irresolute. The blinds are always kept drawn to give privacy to the customers getting tattoos and to create a certain intimate atmosphere in the shop. But he suddenly feels an intense need for natural light, so he strides forward and yanks on the cord. The blinds fly up in surprise. He leans a forearm against the sun-warmed sill and looks unseeingly at the brick siding of the building next door.

Miriam didn’t ask who called, which he was certain she would as soon as he returned to
their table. He was ready to tell her, to confess everything. Instead, she looked shattered, frightened and curiously determined. All his protective instincts went into overdrive. He hustled her out of the café and into the car and drove her back home.

He walked her to the main entrance of her apartment building but before he could make any move to open the door, Miriam stepped up to him and gave him a hug. She was tiny, the top of her head barely tucking under his chin. Her wild hair, rising on the gentle breeze, tickled his cheeks and caught on his lips. He could smell her shampoo and the laundry detergent she uses, light, clean scents that complemented each other and reminded him of something beautiful and rare, like an orchid. She’d lost weight since she first arrived in Hamilton and he could feel her prominent shoulder blades through her soft cotton shirt. Miriam was so self-sufficient that when the shell cracked he was invariably compelled to rush to her rescue. It felt like a victory, or at least a gift, the few times she actually let him help her.

If it was her Crohn’s disease coming back, he knew she’d want privacy. It hurt to see how she suffered and felt humiliated at the same time. She clearly wanted solitude. Yet what he wanted to do was to climb those stairs, walk through her front door and stay with her the rest of the day. The urge was so strong he had to concentrate hard to keep his feet from stepping forward.
Let me come in with you
, he thought. After the hug, she stepped out and with a small, apologetic smile let herself in the door and shut it behind her.

Now back at the shop, he realizes the phone call never came up.

In addition to worrying about Miriam, what she’s doing, how she’s feeling, he has this other issue to deal with. He dodged a confession and it felt like he’d dodged a bullet. Now it feels more like a stay of execution. How can he explain Natasha to Miriam? He can’t kid himself. This is nothing good.

Natasha scans downtown Hamilton with a jaundiced eye. It’s a perfect distance from Nashville: close enough for an afternoon shopping trip, far enough to be a getaway from the capital of country music. Main Street is tidy and prosperous-looking. She’s a business owner, she knows good real estate when she sees it, yet she can’t help but sniff at the kitschy antique shops and too-cute boutiques. God, she wouldn’t last a week in this bumpkin-ville. Judging from the looks she’s drawing on the street, Hamilton is surprised to see her too. With her halter maxi dress of water-colored silk, long burgundy hair, and tattoo that takes up her entire back, she doesn’t exactly blend in with the capri pants and matching twinset crowd. Neither does Emmett, with his full sleeves and shaved head. It’s hard to understand what he sees in this place. She’d understand New York, Miami, San Francisco. But this countrified small town would be the last place she’d pick to open a tattoo shop. Every time she comes to visit, she’s struck anew by the miracle that his shop is still in business. It helps that she wrote generous terms into his loan; he’s paying her back at two points below market rate. Not a sound investment on her part, but holding the mortgage on his shop allows her to make regular checkup visits, and she’d pay a lot more than a couple of points on a business loan for that right.

When she called, Emmett said he was at lunch, so Natasha kills an hour browsing through several stores. She’s been away from her own shop on a buying trip for almost two weeks, the whole time counting down until today. Her blood hums at the thought of seeing Emmett again. It’s been a year since she last saw him. It’s been nine years since they dated in
high school. But that magical feeling is still there. Just his voice on the line brings out that shimmery ache. Being with Emmett is like pushing on a bruise. It hurts, but in a good way, and she can’t seem to stop. So she finds herself in this ridiculous place full of nostalgia for a way of life that never existed.

At one god-awful shop full of potpourri and candles, dying to pass the time, she ends up striking a conversation with the shop owner, a plump lady in her late forties. There’s a momentary lull in customers and as one small business owner to another, they quickly settle into a surprisingly frank discussion of expenses and income, foot traffic and profit margins.

“I owned a store in Fredericksburg, Texas,” Marianne says in her soft Southern drawl. “That’s a lovely little town. But, I tell you, Hamilton beats the pants off Fredericksburg. You should think about it. Tennessee’s not that far from Florida.”

Natasha laughs at the suggestion, but even as she does, a tiny idea begins to grow. Hamilton would never be her kind of place, but Natasha is always open to possibilities and opening a second tea shop, expanding her brand, holds some undeniable possibilities. She’ll never close Steeped in St. Petersburg. That’s her baby, her proudest achievement. But opening a sister store … That’s possible. Natasha feels a sudden surge of excitement. When she returns to Florida, she’ll research the market to see if the area could support a tea shop. In some ways, it’s amazing that the thought never occurred to her. She’d have a much stronger reason for regular visits; though, of course, she’ll have to find a decent manager and those, she knows from experience, are very hard to find.

A couple tourists enter the shop, cooing over the display of wine glasses painted to look like giant flowers.

Feeling both inspired and bemused at the idea of franchising Steeped, Natasha
compliments Marianne on the attractive window display—the woman does have an eye for color—and as a way of showing thanks, mentions she’ll be back to buy those wine glasses after her meeting ends. She feels the weight of the tourists’ eyes as they glance at her and then the glasses on the shelf. The door closes behind her on what is an almost-guaranteed sale.

There are no customers browsing or getting inked when Natasha enters Emmett’s tattoo parlor. As the lienholder, that isn’t good news. As an ex-girlfriend trying to keep in touch with her man, it’s great.

The shop, with its polished cement floors, blood-red walls covered in framed flash, and wide, leather-covered chairs, is grittily urban, but strangely peaceful. The ceiling fans turn slowly, creating the slightest breeze, a mere whisper of cool air brushing against her skin. The storewide sound system plays a thumping Latino rap. She only ever sees Emmett at the store, and there’s a weird Pavlovian response that happens when she enters it—a complete association of the parlor, and its sharp Lysol smell, with being together again. Her breath catches to be here again, blood surging faster in time with the beat of the song.

Emmett looks up as soon as she walks in, and even though the light’s dim and he’s at the far end of the shop, she sees how his expression stays flat, not exactly jumping for joy at seeing her again after nearly a year. But she can’t stop her heart from leaping gladly at his craggy, handsome face nor her stomach from dropping with disappointed mortification that it still hasn’t come back, that glad spark he used to get when he saw her.

Walking slowly, letting her floor-length silk dress flutter around her long, slim legs, head held high, eyes boring straight into Emmett, daring him to look away from her, she enters the shop as if she owns it. Which, technically, she does.

She lets her hips sway ever so slightly. The dress shows off a nice amount of cleavage;
she looks hot and she knows it. Emmett knows it too. He’s looking at her. He’d need to be dead not to look.

“Hey,” she says softly.

“Natasha.” He nods. His voice is neutral, but oh sweet Lord, her name on his lips does something to her insides that nothing else does. Damn it, what is it about him? She swallows thickly. He could sell tickets just to enter the store and have him say your name. He’d make a fortune.

“How are things?” she asks. “How are you?” She wants to know about everyone he sees, every place he eats at. What he dreams of at night. Nothing about him is boring.

He pulls out a set of ledgers and Quicken printouts. She forces herself to fake attention as he takes her through the fiscal year. Okay. Maybe some things about him are boring.

The bottom line, as it has been for the last few years, is that the shop is solvent, barely. He doesn’t need a second loan. But he also isn’t going to pay back what he owes her early either. “And long-term,” she purrs suggestively. “Where do you see the shop in five years?” The thought of opening a tearoom in Hamilton flashes through her mind again; it would be so helpful to have running local businesses in common with him. With no false modesty, Natasha knows she’s a terrific businessperson and maybe when he sees her in her element, running a successful enterprise, he’ll finally see how well they’re suited for each other. Five years from now, they could look back at this as the moment that changed everything.

She rests her forearms on the counter, leaning closer. The position does amazing things to the front of her dress.
Look
, she wills him,
look at what you’re giving up
.

He shifts uncomfortably at the view. It’s the best she’s going to get because at that moment, a bell jingles and someone enters the shop. Without straightening, she turns to look
over her shoulder, tossing her long, sexy hair and curving her spine sensuously. Stretched out like this, in her backless dress, her Japanese scroll tattoo is practically a walking billboard for what Emmett’s magic hands can do to a woman’s body.

A woman walks in—a girl, really. She enters confidently but comes to a stop when she sees Natasha. Wearing a pale pink shirt and a blue skirt with pale pink polka dots, she wouldn’t draw a second look on Main Street. Something about the way she breezes in bothers Natasha. She’s not here to get a tattoo, Natasha surmises, she’s here to see Emmett and wasn’t expecting Emmett to be entertaining company. Natasha smiles a predatory grin. She’s run into these little groupies before. Emmett can’t help collecting them like spare change, though he’s always kind to them, never taking them up on what they’re so clearly offering.

“Hello,” she drawls. “What can we help you with today?” It’s a cruelly shaped thrust and the girl almost stumbles as she hesitates between staying and fleeing.
Run, little girl, run
, Natasha commands.
You can’t have him
.

Emmett leaps off his stool and hurries around the counter to the girl. Natasha frowns, straightening. She’s never seen
that
before.

“Miriam,” he says, reaching for the petite girl, resting a large hand on her shoulder, “is everything okay?”

He knows her name and his voice rumbles with protective concern. Something twists deep in Natasha’s heart and the good pain of pushing on a bruise has suddenly turned to agony.

“Fine, I’m fine,” Miriam says, nervously tucking long, curly hair behind her ears. “I—I didn’t mean to interrupt. I hope that, I mean, it’s just that …” Her words fizzle out as Natasha casually strolls over and stands close to Emmett.

In her heels, Natasha’s much taller than the girl, almost as tall as Emmett, and she knows
how well the two of them fit physically, what a striking couple they make. She stands close enough to feel the body heat coming off through his tight black shirt, close enough that it makes a visual impact on the girl. Emmett hasn’t taken his eyes off the girl, nor has he bothered to introduce them. But Natasha sees how Miriam keeps looking at her, how she’s wondering who she is and what’s her relationship with Emmett.

It’s bad news for you, little girl
, Natasha thinks.
I’m never going to be out of his system. And how are you going to compete with that?

“I’m Natasha,” she says, holding out a long, slim hand to shake. “I’m Emmett’s business partner.”

Miriam’s face flames with embarrassment, though she can’t really say why meeting this person should embarrass her. Maybe it’s all that sexy-beast vibe Natasha’s giving off, like, if Miriam had entered a minute later, she’d have walked in on something hot and kinky. Reluctantly, Miriam reaches out and shakes Natasha’s hand. It’s icy cold, completely at odds with her confident, smoldering attitude. Miriam frowns. So Natasha is nervous.

“I didn’t know you had a business partner,” she says to Emmett.

“Natasha helped me get started,” he says, purposefully vague. “She has a tea shop in Florida, and she’s been a”—he hesitates, looking at Natasha and then back at Miriam—“an advisor and a financial backer of the shop.”

“Oh.” This beautiful, sexy person is rich too? Miriam eyes the door, wondering the best escape. “That’s … nice. How come you never mentioned her before?”

Natasha gives an evil glare before schooling her face to a pleasant mask. She sidles even closer to Emmett, slipping a hand casually around his waist. “Emmett always enjoys playing his cards close to his chest,” she says, somehow implying those cards include her, naked. “We go way back, you know. We dated in high school.”

Miriam’s gaze flicks back and forth between them. They make a remarkable couple, no doubt about it. Emmett with his shaved head and thick arms covered in tattoos, Natasha with her long, gorgeous hair, amazing body and that tattoo on her back. Miriam suddenly realizes that Emmett must have done it. She knows enough about tattoos now to know that it was hours and
hours of work, first to design it, then to ink it. It would have hurt a lot, so many hours under the needle. And surely, Emmett comforted her and distracted her from the pain. Something cold and sharp twists inside her at the mental image.