She talked so fast, I could barely follow. The whole time, she had a dreamy smile on her face, nude painted lips parted, pearly white teeth exposed. Her eyes had a distant, whimsical look in them.
She was even more beautiful when she talked about teaching art to combat depression.
Catch Up
Chapter 2: Your Mom’s Basement
Benton
At exactly five a.m., my alarm went off. I strode into the kitchen where my best friend’s mom handed me a cup of coffee. My Italian mom, who gave me a place to land both times life hit me with a wallop.
“Thank you, Mama M,” I said in a low voice, taking an appreciative sip. As a teacher, she had to be up early, too, and we usually had our coffee together.
“Who are you going to see this morning?” she asked, giving me a knowing look.
“It’s Tuesday, so it’s Tula day,” I said.
“Which means you’ll be having vindaloo for lunch, so you don’t need this lasagna I packed.” She slid the container on the counter closer to her than me.
“Oh, I definitely need that lasagna,” I said, sliding it back to me. “Tula’s next-door neighbor just had a baby, and she doesn’t do curry. This’ll make the perfect lunch for her. I wanted to talk to her about signing up for WIC and SNAP. Her husband’s hours got cut—that’s what these programs are there for.” I slipped the container into my bag.
“Will you be home for dinner?” Mama M asked. “Or will this be one of those nights?”
“Probably gonna be one of those nights,” I admitted. I almost never made it home for dinner. “The renter’s rebate applications started coming in, and I want to stay on top of them.” I really needed an assistant, but there was no such position. A second social worker would work wonders, but tightwad Mayor Gregory Allen Matthews III—he always made sure to include his whole ass name—would never cough up the budget for one.
Mama M gave me a look.
“I know,” I said, giving her a kiss on the cheek. “Have a good day.”
“Tell my son to come for dinner tomorrow night,” she said, “and you and Goldie better be there, too.”
Since there were finally buds on the trees and I wouldn’t freeze my balls off, I walked over to Tula’s. The Shahs only lived a quick fifteen-minute walk from the Mosconis, in the condos behind the post office.
I knocked on Mrs. Shah’s door—Tula, she insisted. Before she started slinging tikka masala out of her kitchen, she and her husband ran Naan of That, the best thing to ever happen to Stagwood Falls. I used to go there just for their cinnamon and sugar naan. Life changing, that stuff. For four beautiful years, they ran that restaurant, just the two of them and their teenage daughter after school. The Shahs were older parents and barely kept up with the restaurant when their daughter went away to college, and when the pandemic hit, they had no choice but to close. Between tuition and inflation, they were struggling to get by, which was how they started selling to-go meals out of their back door. Technically, they didn’t have a license, but what the mayor didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. And I wasn’t about to snitch. I needed my vindaloo fix.
Besides, in a small town that was still very white, black and brown stuck together.
“How are you doing, Tula?” I asked as I settled into her cozy kitchen. Most people were still sleeping, but she rose early to start cooking. It was the only time I could catch her before she headed out to make her deliveries. It suited me just fine, because I was an early bird, too.
Passing me a cup of turmeric ashwagandha, she sat across from me. “Drink up. It’ll help your stress.”
“Who says I’m stressed?” I took a sip anyway. Tula was very serious about her tea. She swore if I drank it every day, it’d cure all my problems. “Anyway, I’m here for you.” I tugged the wrinkled pamphlet out of my bag.
“This again.” She waved a hand at me. “I told you, this is our home.”
I looked around at the kitchen, the vase of fresh tulips on the counter, the bowl of mangos, the Buddha sitting by the sink. “It is,” I said gently. “Senior living isn’t so bad, though. It’s like a little condo in a community full of people your age…and it goes by your income. I just don’t want you to struggle anymore.” I took her hand in both of mine.
“Oh! That reminds me.” She jumped up and gave me a bowl of sliced mango. “You need to eat something other than coffee in the morning.”
How lucky I was, to be surrounded by mothers. I took a grateful bite, moaning in appreciation. Tula’s mangos came from her sunroom grove of bonsais and were the sweetest I’d ever tasted. I couldn’t blame her for not wanting to leave her home. It made no sense that senior living couldn’t offer a stipend for people who already had housing.
“Same time next week?” I asked her, tucking away the pamphlet.
“Your vindaloo,” she said, giving me the container. “And I—”
“Need this back. I know.” I hugged her tight. “Tula, if you need anything—”
“Just you and your handsome smile.” She patted my face. “Keeps my blood pumping.”
I chuckled. “Are you saying you only keep me around for my good looks?”
“Those cheekbones, that smile,” she gushed. “My daughter is in pre-med school, you know. She’ll be a doctor. She’s also very beautiful.” She nodded to a photo on the refrigerator.
“You remind me every week. I think she’s a little young for me, though.”
“She won’t be too young by the time she graduates,” she said with a wink.
“All right, Tula. Be easy.” I walked into the morning sunlight with a smile. I almost always did, after seeing Tula.
I knocked softly on her neighbor’s door, in case the baby was still sleeping, and gave her Mama M’s lasagna with an application for SNAP and WIC. “Just so you have it,” I said before she could argue.
She gave me a tired smile. “Thank you.”
“I’ll pick it up next week. Remember, it’s your tax dollars. It’s there for you.”
“Okay,” she agreed.
“Wish Grocery takes SNAP,” I reminded her, “and Grandma Wish would never give you a hard time for it. Trust me. I grew up on SNAP. David, too. She’ll probably even load you up with some extra if Gardner Farms oversupplies her.”
“Is that how you got to be so handsome?” she teased. “All those fresh veggies.”
I headed to the office, greeting people getting into their cars on my way. Daffodils and tulips were popping up everywhere, chasing away the winter blues. It’d been a long one, for me anyway. Mama M treated me like one of her own, and David was my brother from another mother, but I felt more disconnected than ever, especially since David spent more and more time with Goldie. I mostly saw him at work, sometimes at The Main Idea. Our weekly game nights were becoming our only guy time. To take the edge off the loneliness, I dove deeper into work. If the shoe was on the other foot and I was one of my clients, I’d gently suggest to me that I might have some abandonment issues leftover from my parents.
Tula was right. Not about me marrying her daughter—we were on too different paths of life for me to ever consider it—but I should get back out on the market. I just didn’t have anything to show for myself.
On my way through the building, I passed David’s empty office. He used to show up early like me. Now he had a life. He had a beautiful girlfriend he’d probably marry, and they’d make even prettier babies, surrounded by their warm, loving families. He’d probably be city planner until he retired, which meant his beautiful home up in the Stagwood Heights neighborhood was going to be his forever, a place to raise his family.
Family could mean so many different things, something built from scratch or something built in. I knew I was lucky to be surrounded by so many people who cared about me. Part of me felt like they were just being nice, though, handling the defect who couldn’t get his life together with kid gloves.
I stepped into my office and almost ran into Sabella—beautiful, beautiful Sabella, the woman who’d once invited herself back to my place after drinks and I’d messed that up by not having a place to take her to. Then she’d laughed at me.
No wonder she was single.
“Good morning,” she said, handing me a coffee.
I looked at it and her suspiciously. “Good morning,” I repeated. She wore her long black hair parted down the middle and straightened, framing her face. It skimmed her waist, or at least I thought so. Her hair blended into the oversized Touch of Gold hoodie she wore over leggings. Black, black, and more black. Even first thing in the morning, no makeup or anything, Sabella was stunning. “You’re the real life Morticia,” I blurted.
“If that’s supposed to be an insult, you’re gonna have to do a lot better than that,” she said. “Morticia Addams is a compliment. She’s a Latina queen.”
“It was a compliment,” I said, “but now I take it back. What are you doing here?”
“You can’t undo a compliment. And I already know you want to hit this,” she said sweetly.
“Wanted,” I corrected. For all her beauty, she had zero filter. I liked that I couldn’t predict her, and did not like how sharp her tongue could be. “So what do you want?”
“Your help,” she said, sitting in the visitor’s chair at my desk. “I want to put aside your heartbreaking rejection and ask for your help with a proposal—”
“No way,” I interrupted.
“—for my community art program,” she finished. She folded her hands in her lap, and I spotted dainty tattoos on her fingers before she moved them again, gesturing. “So? Are you going to help me? Pretty please. With sugar.” She batted long lashes at me. “It’s for the community. For mental health. Art therapy is—”
“Come on, we talked about this at David’s,” I said. “I’ve got too much on my plate. The timing—”
“Is a little crazy, I know, but hear me out. Don’t you think the town needs something exactly like this right now?” She blinked up at me, big brown eyes suckering me in.
We just kept looking at each other, her gaze inquisitive and soft, and mine… Well, I probably looked dopey as hell, staring at her. I couldn’t help it. From the moment I saw her at The Main Idea a year earlier, I hadn’t been able to look away. She was all bronze skin and legs, with more tattoos than I could possibly process, up and down every inch of exposed arm, leg, and even her neck. Most of them were roses. Sabella was covered in roses. The red complemented her skin, and the flowers only enhanced her beauty.
“Won’t you let me at least give you my pitch? I’ve been practicing in the mirror,” she pleaded.
“Fine. Give me your pitch. I’m not making any promises,” I warned.
She clapped her hands together, breaking the spell. “¡Wepa!” As she pulled a folder out of her bag, it snagged on the zipper and ripped the corner.
This girl was a beautiful tornado. A walking work of art. And I’d foolishly rejected her, probably taking out any chance of ever really getting to know her, never mind date her.
“In a perfect world, I want to do class twice a week for six weeks—eight, really—with a show at the end of it. A big festival. Outdoor, probably, with vendors and live music, and—”
She talked so fast, I could barely follow. The whole time, she had a dreamy smile on her face, nude painted lips parted, pearly white teeth exposed. Her eyes had a distant, whimsical look in them.
She was even more beautiful when she talked about teaching art to combat depression.
I dropped into the chair on the other side of the desk, my legs a little weak. Everything she was saying was exactly the reason I’d become a social worker. Like her, I wanted to reach out and give people a little lift. Life was hard. Most people were weighted down by poverty or chronic illness, either physical or mental—hell, sometimes both. I’d grown up with separated parents who had me young and never grew up themselves. I was used to coming home to an empty home, my mom at her second job. Dad wasn’t around much, but he made sure I got everything I needed. Money was still tight, even with social services. There were programs Mom didn’t even know about that she found out about through friends. I wanted to make sure everyone knew about these programs, and even make some new ones that everyone had access to.
Sabella was speaking directly to my soul. Our eyes locked again, two souls communicating without words. We wanted the same thing for Stagwood Falls, a place that’d been hit hard by both recessions in our lifetime. People in town were suffering, and only a handful of them came into my office. Some were too prideful or even ashamed to ask for help. An art program would draw people in, and by talking to them throughout the program, I could gauge their needs and make casual suggestions.
“We could do so much together,” I said at last.
“That’s what I’m saying!” she said with a grin. “So are you in, homeless Benton?”
“I already told you I’m in, and don’t call me that,” I said.
“Sometimes in my head I call you Señor Serio,” she said, dropping her voice and exaggerating a serious expression.
“Don’t call me that either,” I said.
“See? So serious. You’re gonna get frown lines right here.” Standing, she reached across my desk and touched the spot between my eyebrows. Heat bloomed where the pads of her fingers met my skin, radiating through me. Her hands on me felt like the kind of good I’d never get enough of.
The kind of good that wouldn’t matter because I had nothing to offer her.
I caught her hand in mine. “Let’s just focus on the program, cool?”
“Cool,” she said with a shrug, but I didn’t miss the disappointment in her eyes. Maybe she’d felt it, too. Maybe she hadn’t. It didn’t matter.
If I helped roll out her art program, I’d have a foolproof reason for Matthews to give me a raise. Then I’d finally get out of David’s old bedroom, and I’d have something real to offer a woman like Sabella.
I rolled up my sleeves.
Thank you for reading Chapter 2 of Tattooed Heart, Book 2 in the Stagwood Falls: Love in Ink series.
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“The small town vibes are impeccable”
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“I love how she writes so real”
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“Crazy tension”
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Sabella makes a living covering up people’s bad tattoos, creating art out of regrets and mistakes. When she finds herself separated from her high school sweetheart turned heartbreaker, she doesn’t just go into hiding; she takes her best friend up on an offer for a fresh start at her new tattoo shop and runs all the way to Stagwood Falls, an idyllic town reinventing itself after its own heartache. It’s the perfect place to hide, and it’s where she finds a new purpose: teaching the healing power of art to a community that’s desperate to move on. Unfortunately, to put her plan into action, Sabella must enlist the help of one sexy, sensitive town social worker, Benton Rhinehart—AKA the guy who wants nothing to do with her after their first encounter ended in hurt feelings and a wounded ego.
Benton gives everything to the people of Stagwood Falls, but the bank still took all he had when the recession hit. Instead of rebuilding himself, he eagerly dove headfirst into solving other people’s problems. So when Sabella comes to him with her community art program plan, Benton doesn’t hesitate to throw himself fully into it, even if that means working with the woman who shamelessly snubbed him the first time they met.
Despite their rocky start, it’s hard to ignore that Sabella and Benton make a great team. Their business relationship quickly turns into a friendship they both desperately need. Even though they’re better off as friends, the more time they spend together, the harder it is to ignore that there’s something much deeper going on. But when Sabella’s ex comes to town saying everything she wants to hear, she has to choose between her heart and her dream. Both feel like the same thing, and choosing wrong is one mistake she won’t be able to cover up.
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“Great miscommunication trope book”
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