Inked Hearts: A Bad Boy Next Door Romance

By Alice Hoffman

You ever feel like life hands you a script, and you're just playing your part? Well, that was me—Diana, living the life my mom mapped out. Runway walks, posh living, and absolutely zero say in my own Californian story. Crazy, right?

 

My checklist for a fulfilling life was pretty standard - a dog, a cozy apartment, a car that doesn't hate the environment, a job that feels less like a cage, and, oh yes, fine arts. I was the runway puppet, chauffeured around in a car I never drove, and there was an unwarranted fear of me running over someone. Did I mention Mom's disdain for dogs? Yeah, I never got that either.

 

Then came this online ad, a whisper of freedom. Three hundred bucks, two bags, and a ticket later, I'm in London. Goodbye, golden cage; hello, spontaneous adventure.

 

Inkphoric became my refuge, a tattoo haven that felt like home. Who'd have thought a tattoo studio could be so much more than a job? In that buzzing ink-scented space, I found my tribe, my people. They became the family I never knew I needed.

 

And then there's Ryder, turning my world upside down. Love?  Unexpected, but hey, life's a wild ride.

 

"Some things were meant to be marked on the skin."

 

This, my friend, is life off-script, and it's pretty darn exciting.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Alice Hoffman
• Release date: Jan 15, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224316205

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

C ome on, Mom, give it a rest... I pleaded for the umpteenth time, waving around the promo of one of the country's top-notch universities with a kickass arts program.

Don't make me repeat myself, Mom scowled—or attempted to, her botox playing its part in freezing her expressions. You're not wasting your time in some artsy-fartsy school, not when you've got a boatload of contracts to ink and photoshoots to grace.

I had to bite my cheek to stifle the urge to scream at my mom. I despised how she belittled my most passionate pursuit, dismissing painting as just some pastime. While she viewed it as a waste of time, for me, it was a means of self-expression and a way to unwind after a damn exhausting day.

Flashback to elementary school: I let my creative juices flow for a contest, winning a chocolate bar, a gold star, and a grin wide enough to shame the Cheshire Cat. My masterpiece adorned the classroom for a whole year. Did I forget to mention that part?

Fast forward, I've been craftily slipping into painting classes, hoodwinking my mother who assumed I was enrolled in etiquette school. Oh, and wait, I forgot to do the whole introduction thing...

I don't think I've given you my name yet. I'm Diana Rose, a twenty-one-year-old living in the sunny enclave teeming with superficial, second-rate plastic people and fourth-grade playboys, aka Beverly Hills. Right now, my modeling career is soaring, and I can't stand it!

I'm always hustling, perpetually jet-setting, and not having a shred of fun, all in the name of squeezing the last drops of youth. Many think this life is all glitz and glam, but let me set the record straight—it's anything but. Every time I put pen to paper on a new contract, it feels like a chunk of my life is slipping away, and I'm growing older...

Shaking off those thoughts, I attempt to convince Mom once more. I snagged this brochure as a sign from the universe after finding it on our doorstep. Confusing, right? Because aside from my mother and my best friend, nobody really knows what the hell I want to do for the rest of my life.

GIVE ME A BREAK, MOM. I just want a shot to flaunt my skills.

You're not short on talent, Diana. She stops flipping through the mag in her hands, glancing at me briefly before rolling her eyes. Right now, I'm knee-deep in work. Shouldn't you be tossing your stuff in a suitcase for our business trip?

I growled. It's always about her job—or mine. When she's not sketching new threads for her wafer-thin models, she's devouring critiques about her work, even when there's nothing to criticize. Bloggers, entrepreneurs, and snobs in the fashion scene hail her as the reigning queen of design in our generation.

That irked me a bit. Our generation? There are gals out there practically starving themselves to prance down the catwalk, sweating through insane diets and brutal workouts. All for the designer to point fingers when they gain a couple of hundred grams, blaming them for sabotaging the whole darn collection.

Not that I've experienced it firsthand, but I've witnessed a poor girl go through that drill. Initially, the fear of being axed haunted me, but with time, I just stopped caring.

I'm not against the fashion world; in fact, many teens and gals look up to me. I've strutted the catwalks and graced magazines for as long as memory serves. Always picked for my mom's glory rather than my own damn beauty and talent.

I grab my stuff from Mom's desk, shoot her a disappointed look—though she doesn't notice—and march off to my room. Flopping onto my cushy bed, I let out a frustrated sigh.

How many times have we danced this tango? Countless. It always wraps up the same. I shift my gaze from the bland ceiling to the Chanel suitcases neatly stacked by my door.

In a few days, I'll be jetting off to Milan, ready to ink what's supposed to be the grandest contract of my life. Lunch with none other than Karl Lagerfeld himself, hashing out the deets of a permanent gig with Chanel.

I didn't want any of that. All I craved was to roam the streets, soak in Milan for the umpteenth time—though I've practically lost count—so the first shot my mom had to wreck it, I'd seize it. She'd try to lay on the guilt, reminiscing about the time invested in me during my teens.

But she'd grown tired of my manipulation. If she couldn't back my play, it was high time I ditched this joint. Even though this was where I'd grown up, there weren't any good memories to hoard.

Eighteen rolled around, and I knew I needed my own turf to break free from Mom's grip once and for all. Apparently, there was just one way to pull this off without biting the dust.

I'd have to step outside the realm of Elizabeth Rose's control.

I snatch my cell from the bed, fire up WhatsApp, and shoot a text to my ride-or-die, Helena, seeking her take.

Diana: - Mom shot down my college dream again.

I bide my time, almost half an hour, until she deems it fit to respond.

Helena: - Screw it! I'm sorry, Diana.

Buffe, everyone used to call me that—her and Mom alike.

Diana.

I HATE THAT NAME!

Who in their right mind names their kid Diana Diana Rose?

Well, my mother.

And she liked it enough to stick it as my stage name, not giving a damn about my protests.

Diana: - I hate that you call me Diana, and you know it. By the way, how's your third year going?

Helena, unlike me, got to dive into the Art program at New York University to study acting. I'll give it to her; she was a tad envious due to the unconditional support her folks showered on her when she opted to chase the same dream as me.

Helena: - Sorry, DIANA;) As always, great. I'll hit you up later; I'm on my way to a rager to celebrate the end of exams.

I don't bother with a reply or a comment on my grand escape plan. Since our last meet-up on vacation, she's been distant and weird. Constantly snubbing me while glued to her phone, acting downright rude. New York had flipped her script, and I was on the brink of losing my ride-or-die if I kept this up.

LETTING OUT A SIGH that could rival a world-weary pirate, I crack open my laptop, diving into the vast seas of my social networks. The hearts and followers on Instagram have been multiplying since that last feature in Elle magazine, dragging in both admirers and the scallywags. Mom's advice is to steer clear of her bouts of envy, but damn, it's a tricky course when all you're after is putting in the hard yards to win everyone over.

Deciding to bury all that noise in the digital treasure chest, I shut down all the browser tabs, embarking on a quest for art college courses in far-off lands. In the midst of my digital voyage, an online ad hoists the anchor.

We're tossing scholarships to those with a swashbuckling take on the Arts...

For a heartbeat, I'm thunderstruck. Intrigued, I decide to dig deeper. The more I read, the more I'm ready to set sail. They're dishing out scholarships to international talents with a unique flair, launching in the first weeks of November. To snag one, all I need is to craft a piece that roars 'me' as a person.

Aye, a sweet deal! With October just setting sail, I've got all the time in the world to forge my masterpiece and scrawl down some killer responses for the impending inquisition.

Fired up, I flop back onto the mattress. In a month, I could be charting a course for that scholarship, and Mom wouldn't have to shell out a doubloon. She'd be off the grid, dipping into my life savings to scout out a snug hideout.

IN LONDON!

A trio of knocks shatter my silent victory dance.

Yeah?

Diana, you've got twenty minutes to doll up. - Mom barges in, tablet in hand. When her eyes land on the suitcases, she shoots me a pleased grin. - We're heading out for lunch with pals, sweetheart.

Gemi. - Can you handle it solo? I'm too beat to bear the agony of heels.

Because, let's face it, hitting the public with my mom meant strapping into those high-heeled torture devices. Models don't flaunt sneakers and yoga pants. Truth be told, my body's screaming from the brutal workout just two hours ago.

Mom gives a casual shrug. - Suit yourself, but I don't want to catch wind of you ordering pizza or some kilo-packing grub. Karl won't dig the weight gain.

Once she exits my realm, I seize the moment, flipping her the bird in a childish act.

Damn, I shouldn't throw in the towel; this is a golden ticket, a once-in-a-lifetime shot.

The phone jangles, slashing through my blissful thoughts.

Dad: - Tell your mom I've wired your monthly allowance to your stash. Love you.

I roll my eyes, tapping out a response.

Diana: - It's cool, Dad.

I'm not ungrateful or anything. The dude I'm supposed to call father is just throwing money at the fact that we're practically strangers. Dad and I, we've never exactly been bosom buddies. Caught a glimpse of each other a couple of times in the past year during his California business jaunts.

I get it; Dad's knee-deep in work and his new clan. I don't hold it against him. Yup, after the epic split with my mom, he dove back into the marriage pool and popped out a couple more kiddos.

Back to my mom—I'm keeping her in the dark about my new escapade. The funds Dad threw my way were just what I needed. With a tad extra in my account, I could swing the ticket and snag a pad faster than I thought.

So...

London, Diana Rose is about to crash the College of Arts.

CHAPTER 2

Glancing at the clock once more and sizing up the flight info on the mammoth TV screen, I realize I've got a measly hour to snag that ticket and toss my bags into the departure zone.

Lucky for me, the line's moving at a clip faster than I anticipated. A smirk creeps onto my face as it's finally my turn, and I swagger up to the chick behind the counter. - One ticket to London, pronto.

First-class indulgence or standard travel grind? - she asks, shooting back a grin.

Standard, please.

Admit it, I'm feeling a tad jittery about blending in like a regular Joe buying a ticket. But this chick barely bats an eyelash as I dish out my deets. Whether she's hip to my fame or living under a rock, that's a mystery that'll stay locked.

For now, my focus is locked onto crafting paintings that'll shoot my emotions straight into people's cores—unique, classy pieces that'll jazz up a living space and turn it into a haven.

Maybe I'll even throw in the curveball of getting a dog. Picture this: a sleek French bulldog named Otto. Or maybe a Labrador for non-stop cuddles. The options are limitless, my friend.

Alright, Miss Rose. The kind lady hands over my ticket to a new chapter - Your ride's taking off in thirty. Grab your gear and keep tabs on the departure board.

Ticket in hand, I stash it in a safe spot pronto. Next up, I hustle my bags through the hustle and bustle of the airport corridors. Just as I'm strutting my stuff, a call buzzes on my phone. So caught up in my own world, I pick up without even glancing at the screen.

Diana?

I let out a muttered curse; I wasn't supposed to be dealing with Mom until I touched down in London or got cozy in the swanky new pad I snagged.

What's eating you, Mom?

Just spotted you burning cash from your account. What on earth did you buy for nearly three hundred bucks?

Yet another reason I was making my grand exit—Mom held the reins on all my finances without my green light. Always spinning it like some motherly wisdom to steer my spending ship. Well, no more. From now on, I'd be the master of my own moolah.

Did you sneak a peek into my bank stash again? - I grit my teeth.

Oh, how I wished I could unleash a scream that'd turn heads. But right now, that was the last thing I needed.

As if it's the most natural thing, moms retort with, - I'm your mother, it's my duty.

I halt in the middle of the corridor, propping myself against the wall, wrestling to funnel my rage into a response that's both rational and civil. No clue how I'll pull it off, but Mom's a pro at testing my patience. I suck at showdowns and try to dodge them like a ninja, but Mom, she exploits that weakness.

I sighed. - Sorry, Mom, but I can't fake loving this modeling charade any longer. Just so you know, I'm on the verge of breaking free from the runway and you won't change my mind.

DON'T YOU DARE TALK TO ME LIKE THAT, DIANA DIANA ROSE! - She erupts, making me jump a smidge.

I'm pretty sure folks nearby caught a whiff of her yelling through the phone. Heck, the entire state might've just tuned into my mother's sonic boom.

I'm bidding adieu to California, Mom, it's settled. I state as coolly as I can. - I expected you, of all people, to cheer me on, but I'm done waiting for you to wise up.

YOU BETTER HIGHTAIL IT HOME THIS INSTANT!

JEEZ! Ever consider knocking off the bossy act? - I cut her off before she could retort. - Spare me the lecture; I'm off to chase my dreams, and you can't play the stopper.

You don't know what I'm capable of, Diana, she mutters with a veiled threat.

Fury surges within me. My own mother was tossing threats at me for not toeing her line. How messed up is that? Honestly, I couldn't care less about her antics. If intimidation was her game, it wasn't going to work.

On the airport speakers, they blare the announcement for the London flight's departure. I needed to hustle.

Surprise me, Elizabeth. It was real enlightening talking to you one last time - I grunt and slam the call shut.

(...)

I YANK MY THIRD AND final suitcase off the luggage carousel, making my way toward the exit with a bit of swagger. Glancing at my phone, it's flooded with calls from Mom and a couple from Helena, probably roped into the drama to change my mind or something.

Sorry, not happening. The only puppeteer of my decisions is yours truly. Later, I'll give Helena the lowdown. Right now, I'm just itching to crash on a comfy bed in my new digs.

Slapping on my cream-colored wool hat, I locate the address the landlord provided and rattle it off to the cabbie. He eyes me strangely as he helps load my luggage in the back.

Miss, are you sure? - He questions, giving me a once-over. - That's a dodgy neighborhood for a girl.

I shrug it off. In the pics, it looked all right. - We'll see.

He grumbles while securing his seatbelt. I catch snippets about girls my age and dangers, but I couldn't care less. Instead, I soak in the London scenery.

Gorgeous, albeit not as sun-drenched as my usual haunts. But who cares? My mind's already painting the canvas for next month's audition, and I'm certain London's gonna be my muse.

Had been here before for an H&M shoot, but Mom never let me venture out; two days and back to California right after the session.

As the cab delves into the city, streets grow darker, narrow, and dingy, alleys choked with rubbish.

Where the hell am I?

Well, miss, I can drop you here. - The cabbie announces, stopping in an industrial zone.

I'm hoping this dude's just pulling a prank, flashing a grin and saying he's the king of customer trolling. But two minutes roll by, and he just sits there, nervously staring like he's got the jitters.

This place is nothing like the online ad.

Your destination is right there. - He points to a rundown warehouse.

What? - I stammer.

I turn, feeling uneasy, and gasp. It's completely desolate—dirt, a sprinkle of grass, and heaps of trash scattered everywhere.

Now what? I had my eyes on this fantastic place—two bedrooms, a living room, kitchen, and a small bathroom. Perfect for my stay. And since the website seemed legit, I transferred half the deposit to seal the deal.

How naive I'd been, played like a fiddle.

That con artist is probably having a good laugh at the broke girl stranded in a foreign land. But I believe in karma. It'll swing back and bite them in the rear sooner or later.

Back to my present pickle—I'm royally screwed.

Told you there was nothing here for you. - The cabbie's voice jolts me back.

Something wet streaks my face. I didn't realize I was crying. - I'm sorry, can you take me downtown?

He nods, steering us back.

Where would I stay? A hotel? Nope, can't afford that for a whole month. It's either food or shelter, not both.

Mind if I drop her here? - The cabbie asks after fifteen minutes of aimless driving.

I SCAN THE SURROUNDINGS, a bustling yet peculiar street. Hand over the cash he signals for, and he lends a hand unloading the hefty suitcases that I've been dragging to who knows where. Catch a faint welcome to London as he exits.

Sauntering down the street, I eye people with quirky looks – tattoos, vibrant hair, snug leather – a bit rock and roll. Others sport a Gypsy or Hippie vibe, peddling vinyl records from their small stalls.

Fascinating.

In this eclectic mix, I might be the odd one out. Perhaps it's my simplicity or the audacity of wearing a pale pink sweater in a sea of black and red.

I keep strolling until I hit a massive park. Grab a hot chocolate from a little stand, and lug my hefty suitcases to the nearest bench. Dragging those things around the streets has me beat. Muscles are screaming for relief, and my head's begging for a pillow.

Adjust my hat, now covering my ears entirely. The chocolate in my hands barely offers warmth. I need something heartier to thaw out and gather some energy to find a place to crash.

After downing my drink, I gaze at the cloudy sky. Clearly, nothing's going my way today:

Reason number one: A kid played with my hair the entire flight.

Reason number two: Fell for a scam when buying an apartment.

Reason number three: Nowhere to crash.

Reason number four: The cold might give me hypothermia if I don't find a warm spot.

And, to top it off, I know precisely zero people in this country.

About the last part, I recall that I should ring up Helena, let her know I've bid farewell to California for a while. Maybe she's got a friend who can take me in until I sort out my living situation.

You might figure that, given all the mess, it's smarter to head back to my mom's place. Nah, not my style. I'm not one to backtrack. Said I'd plant myself in London for my studies, and that's what I'll do.

Dial my friend's number, and on the third ring, she picks up.

Hey, Helena, what's up?

No response, at least not directly to me. I catch the drawn-out words and hear boys' voices, mixed with a few laughs. The phone must have picked up on its own.

I was about to hang up and catch her later, but a particular question piqued my interest, holding me back.

Yo, Helena, where's that friend of yours who rings you up at all hours?

My stomach knots at that. I don't call Helena every day; our communication is usually through messages. And when I do call, it's during decent hours.

Ah, right! Your model buddy - The guy chuckles. - That chick's hot. Hope I get a chance to meet her someday.

Ugh, God. She looks like a walking cliché and dresses like one. Of course, you want to meet her. Diana's a self-centered piece of work; I'd save yourself the trouble if I were you. - I widen my eyes in surprise, continuing to eavesdrop on Helena. - She wanted to study arts with me just to outshine me because she always has to be the best at everything. Helena gives a hiccup and a tipsy laugh. - She's a complete idiot. Not even her mother can stand her... She just uses everyone. Her life is so pathetic.

I end the call before I can hear more. It's painful. My only friend in the world is trashing me in front of strangers. And even if she's under the influence of alcohol, you know the saying: Drunkards and children always speak the truth.

I squeeze my eyes shut as tears stream down my face. Now, I had absolutely no one by my side. Mentally, I'm pondering, what else could go wrong? And, as if fate despises me, a miserable drizzle starts, forcing me to run for cover.

(...)

After sprinting with my hefty luggage, searching for a spot devoid of people to shelter from the rain, I manage to find refuge under a tent. I gasp, chest burning. Damn, my clothes are drenched, and my suitcases too. A passing car splashed water, soaking me completely.

PERFECT.

The cold intensifies, and I'm shivering like a bowl of jelly. Peering through the glass of the establishment—well, trying to, because the windows are polarized and I can't see a thing—I grab my luggage again and step into the store, hoping it's a place to warm up with a hot drink.

Then I discover it's a music store, styled with a fantastic vintage vibe. I set everything aside and start exploring the wonderfully decorated space. Vinyl records and CDs, with price tags, line the aisles, and posters of presumably rock bands are up for sale.

Welcome, how can I assist you? - A voice asks from behind.

I turn to face a red-haired girl clad entirely in black. Killer makeup and a nose ring. Always wanted one of those, but my mother never allowed it because it wasn't well-received for a model.

I half-smile. - Just browsing.

She nods, a puzzled look on her face. - You're soaked. – She comments, pointing to my drenched clothes.

It's true the fabric sticks to me like a second skin.

I wince knowing it was a subtle way of telling me to go away. - How sorry I am. I was just sheltering myself from the rain, I'll be leaving right now.

She denied - Don't worry. Stay until it clears and you can go to your hotel.

- Hotel?

You're a tourist, right? I half nodded because it wasn't entirely true. - Well you must have a place to stay, seeing all the luggage you bring. - She says pointing to the suitcases behind her

I smiled uncomfortably at how observant this girl is, something I wasn't used to.

- Thanks, I promise not to disturb.

She smiled - Don't worry, I'm Reneé Taylor.

I had to bite my lip hard to keep from laughing, and it was because her name was fitting for her deep red hair and indie outfit along with some tattoos peeking out on her forearms.

True, the fabric clings to me like it's aiming for second-skin status.

I flinch, catching the subtle hint to scram. - My bad. Just taking cover from the rain; I'll be on my way shortly.

She dismisses it. - No worries. Hang around until it lets up, or head to your hotel.

Hotel?

You're a tourist, huh? I offer a half-nod, not entirely true. - Well, you gotta have a place lined up, considering the luggage parade you've got. - She nods toward the suitcases behind her.

I shoot an uncomfortable smile at this astute girl, something I'm not accustomed to.

Thanks. Promise not to be a bother.

She grins. - No worries, I'm Reneé Taylor.

I have to bite my lip hard to stifle a laugh because her name syncs perfectly with her fiery red hair, indie ensemble, and a sprinkle of tattoos on her forearms.

Go ahead, laugh. That's why I dyed it this way. - She encourages with a grin.

A chuckle escapes. - My bad. – I clear my throat. - I'm Diana Rose. Nice to meet you, Reneé.

Solid, Diana. - She motions for me to follow her to the counter, where she takes a seat. - What brings you to London?

I... - I ponder for a sec.

Can I trust someone new and spill the beans?

Reneé seems solid, not intimidating—just a bit, but in a good way. She honestly looks like someone you can trust, so I don't hold back. I spill all the beans from why I came to London to what's happening now.

Wow, friend, that's heavy. And what's your game plan? I mean, this city can be a bit dicey for a girl like you, just wandering alone.

I can swing a hotel for tonight. - I sigh, a bit frustrated. - Tomorrow, I'll hunt down a gig that pulls in enough to snag a cozy apartment.

I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but rent here's gotta be paid upfront. Reneé frowns.

Great, another downer to add to my list.

Unbelievable... - I rest my head on the counter. I hadn't realized how much my head throbbed, and the cold of the glass brings a bit of relief.

Diana... - I lift my head with difficulty, and I catch Reneé looking at me with sadness. - I know this is nuts, but... My brother and I need someone to chip in for rent, and maybe you...

I cut her off right there. - You can't do that; you don't even know me.

She denies. - I wouldn't sleep easy knowing you're out there solo when I've got an empty room in my flat.

Repeating myself, you don't know me. - I furrow my brow. - I could be a serial killer, and you're offering me your digs.

She raises an eyebrow. - Are you? 'Cause I've got a list of people I'd like you to take care of.

I burst into laughter. Loud laughter.

Unfortunately, I'm not, but maybe we can tackle that later. - I wink, making her laugh too.

Come on, when you snag a job, you can kick in for rent, and you won't have to sweat earning a pile to get your own place.

Reluctantly, I nod. - In that, you're right. Three heads can hustle better than one.

Reneé grins. - So, what's the word? Roommates?

Sigh, didn't want to impose. But I couldn't pass up such a killer opportunity either. Fate dropped Reneé in my lap, and now she's handing me a place to crash.

Roommates. - I answer with a reciprocal smile. - But you gotta run it by your brother first. - I caution.

Until she gets the green light from her brother, I can't move in. I suppose I can crash in a hotel for the night.

Consider it done. - She says, winking at me.

CHAPTER 3

Iditched the hotel around three in the afternoon. Spent the morning drying out almost every piece of clothing I had crammed into the suitcases that took a beating in yesterday's rain. The laundry tab added a bit more dent to my already tight budget, but at least it spared the stuff I couldn't afford to replace. Losing my sanity? Nah, that's not on my to-do list.

Strolling down the street near the hotel, about twenty minutes before my grand plan to snag a stable gig, I was eyeing this cozy café across the street when my phone decides to pipe up.

Hey Ren... - I flashed a grin, not entirely sure she'd buzz me today, and my nerves were playing tag.

Good news, Diana... - My brother greenlit you. YOU'RE IN WITH US! - The last part blasted with sheer excitement.

I held back a squeal of joy, silently doing a victory dance. Some dudes passing by caught my little celebration, snickered at my antics, and tossed me two thumbs up. I shot them an embarrassed smile and thanked Reneé for pulling off this miracle.

No sweat, girl. I'm off at six. Grab your stuff and head straight to the store. We're throwing a bash.

I chuckled. Reneé had the audacity to treat me like we've been buddies for ages. Bid her farewell and bounced back to the hotel room to pack my gear.

Today had all the signs of a damn good day.

(...)

Celebrating our new roommate status with hot chocolate was oddly perfect. Trying not to giggle at how absurd we looked, toasting with steaming cardboard cups instead of classy champagne flutes. But hey, Reneé went the extra mile to set all this up, so I thanked her and held back tears for how good she'd been to me, even though we'd only crossed paths twenty-four hours ago.

I couldn't help but think Helena never pulled off anything this grand for me. And we'd known each other since we were ten. It felt like I'd lost a battle to hold back the tears.

Reneé handed me a dainty napkin. - If you start bawling over this, I dread to see when you check out your room. - She said, giving me a warm smile.

Sorry, Reneé. - I wiped my tears with the napkin, careful not to mess up my makeup. - So much has gone down since I left California; I'm surprised something good is finally happening.

Reneé gave me a comforting pat on the back. - Sharing is caring, dear. Spill it, Aunt Reneé wants to know what's eating at you.

I spilled the whole saga with Helena, how much it hurt to know what she thought of me. By the time I realized, it was six o'clock, closing time. After Reneé insisted so much on lugging one of my suitcases, and I caved due to her threats, we sauntered toward her apartment, just a few blocks from the store where she worked.

So, what's the game plan with your old pal? Must say, she sounds like a heartless witch.

I have no clue. I suck at confrontations. I usually end up saying something incoherent and hyperventilating. - I furrowed my brow. - Best move is to forget the whole deal and move on with my life.

Apparently, something I said tickled Reneé, and she burst into a laugh.

You're one strange American, not to mention the oddest girl I've ever met.

I smiled. This coming from the girl who looked like The Little Mermaid's clone. Only thing missing was her name being Ariel. But hell, I wouldn't be surprised if she announced a name change soon.

A question popped into my head. - Hey, how's your brother?

She sighed, her smile replaced by a slight scowl of annoyance. - He's a whole different breed. Loud, kind of messy, a giant pain in the ass growing up as the little sister. But he's a good guy. I'm sure he'll dig you.

I nodded, not knowing what to make of that. Right now, all I wanted was some peace and to vibe with the folks destiny threw my way.

I'm more concerned about you stirring things up with him... - I snapped my eyes open from the shock and halted - .. Hey, don't stress about it. I'll have the pan ready to whack him when he acts up. - She added with a smile.

Why would your brother do that? - I asked, a bit scared.

Just look at you. - She gestured with her hand, pointing at me - You've got a killer bod, stunning eyes, and you're so sweet. In a nutshell, you're every boy's desire for a good time.

I made a face expression. - Not cool, Reneé.

I'm just keeping it real. She shrugged. But you seem sensible; I don't think you'll have an issue turning down Scott.

I lowered my head; I could bet my cheeks were red. For me, sex was something I hadn't had the chance to dive into properly. I always waited for someone who saw me as more than an object to satisfy their desires. In a nutshell, that's why I was still a virgin. And it would stay that way until I found the right guy to make my heart do a somersault and find its way back to its place.

We're here. - Reneé halted at the bottom of the stairs, eyeing a brick-colored building. She raised her phone to her ear and muttered a curse. - That idiot, told him to keep the damn phone on. Stay put, Diana, I'll fetch the moron and see if he's up for helping haul your bags.

I put a pause on her ascent. - No need to bother him; we can lug them up ourselves. Plus, there ain't that many.

Honey, there's no elevator in this joint. It's been busted for years, and I doubt they're fixing it now. She grinned. It'll be quick, promise. No fuss.

My shoulders sagged; this was definitely not a win-win argument. - Fine, I'll wait for you here.

She nodded and started climbing the stairs until she vanished into the building's entrance. Meanwhile, I was scanning the surroundings—a peaceful, beautiful neighborhood, plenty of trees, and I liked that. Back where I used to reside, they'd chop down trees to put up cookie-cutter houses, leaving little shade on a scorching day.

Hey... A deep male voice jolted me; I shuddered instinctively, turning around to face him. Much taller than me, maybe a foot, short dark brown hair longer in the middle, shorter at the sides, symmetrical lips, perfectly straight nose, and a strong jaw. Dressed in black pants, black converse, and a blue sports jacket rolled up to the elbows, revealing tattoos.

Does everyone here sport ink?

Yeah? - I mumbled self-consciously under his gaze; even with dark glasses on, I could feel the intensity emanating from his eyes. He arched an eyebrow, scrutinizing me before speaking. - Move aside; you're blocking the path with your luggage. - He ordered.

I scowled; that was downright rude. Not everyone in life hands out smiles, but I didn't expect to deal with someone extremely idiotic. Not in the mood for a verbal brawl, I stepped aside to let him pass.

Happy now? - I quipped, glaring at him.

Oh, such an obedient Barbie. - He strolled past me, a whiff of perfume mingled with Calvin Klein shaving lotion trailed him. He stopped before the first step and glanced back at me. - Next time, don't leave your crap lying around.

Without a doubt, dealing with an idiot.

I watched him nonchalantly ascend the steps, and before he disappeared, I seized the opportunity to flip him the bird.

I saw you, Barbie. - He turned around, smirking at me. I despised him because his smile was damn beautiful. And now that I noticed, he had a ring adorning his lower lip.

Before I could say anything, Reneé exited the building, accompanied by another guy—probably Scott. They halted just as the rude guy opened his mouth to say something to me.

Oh, great, Ryder, it's here. Reneé beamed at him.

Ryder?

Dwarf. - He nodded toward her, ruffling his hair a bit, then greeted the other guy. - Was hoping to see you inside. What are you doing outside?

Just helping my sister's friend... - He replied, his voice husky and worn.

Diana... Reneé called me over, gesturing to join them. As soon as I got close, her brother smiled at me.

So, you're my sister's new buddy... - He said. The first thing I noticed was his accent, more pronounced than his sister's, and I saw the resemblance in their eyes. It didn't shock me that the guy was covered in tattoos. - I'm Scott, but you can call me honey, love, or whatever floats your boat.

I was bewildered, staring at his skin, practically a walking work of art. Even more tattoos than the rude dude, including his neck and hands. Wondered how long it took him to cover all those areas.

Thanks, Scott sounds just peachy. - I mumbled, half-smiling.

Reneé grinned, slinging her arm around my shoulders. - Hey, Ryder, this is Diana Rose, my new friend. Diana, this is Ryder Roberts, Scott's pal.

I didn't catch Ryder's reaction because I didn't even look at him—not because I didn't want to, but because I couldn't. Something in his gaze compelled me to avert mine, and I felt myself blush.

Well, better start hauling all that crap. - Scott descended to the bottom of the stairs, effortlessly grabbing two suitcases and ferrying them to the apartment.

Ryder, you pitch in too. - My fiery-haired friend ordered, taking my hand and pulling me up.

He clicked his tongue. - How annoying you are.

Yeah, yeah. - I waved dismissively. - Help out, and then I promise to let you and Scott blast your music as loud as you want.

Ryder snorted before grabbing the last suitcase. - Like I'd believe you.

I couldn't help but let out a little laugh; never had friends or acquaintances act this way. They were usually snooty idiots expecting others to be at their beck and call.

As soon as we finished hauling our suitcases—much heavier than Scott claimed—up four flights, we entered the apartment. Reneé was so thrilled, she gave me a tour of what would be my new temporary home.

THE PAD WAS PERCHED up top. The words to tag it could be snug and comfy. It even felt more homely than my ancient crib. Flooded with light—a kitchen with ample space, a living room fit for a rowdy crowd of ten, and a balcony with a street view. The only gripe? One bathroom for a trio. That'd be a real hassle, considering how long it took us dames to prep for a night out.

Need a hand with unpacking?

I shook it off. Didn't want to milk Reneé's kindness any more than I had. - You've got other stuff to do, and I'm hogging your time.

She scowled. - Diana, I'm straight-up, and if you were cramping my style, I'd spill. - She gestured for me to head to my room, and I complied. - Besides, curious to see what you're hauling in these things you call suitcases.

I chuckled; Reneé, the straight shooter.

The room assigned to me, beyond the pastel pink walls, was a bit barren. Just a sizable bed, a dresser, and a ceiling lamp. Reneé threw in that she could whip up some of her mom's vintage furniture to jazz it up. I took