Late the next afternoon, Zoe turned when the tattoo parlour door opened, setting off the bell that let her and the guys know that a customer was entering. When she saw Scars standing there, staring at her, all huge and muscular in a jean jacket and his cut, she started, blushed, dropped a stack of papers.
“Heeeeeyyyy, Zoe,” he said, still staring, drawing out the first word so that it sounded vaguely like a threat. She suddenly panicked that he was going to say something about the Friday night in his office, about his fingering her to orgasm on his desk, right there in front of the guys. She was pretty sure that he was pissed about her running out of the office, and she’d made one hell of an effort to avoid him all day – and now here he was, looking like he had plenty to say. “How you doi
