Baz was going to be massively late opening the shop today, but he didn't care. His mood was excellent. He'd had a stellar night.

He made his way north through the campus and into the downtown area of Coaling Springs—a college town that only existed to serve the student body of Tate Olliver University. He slowed before the door marked Dreamweaver Tattoos and gave the handle a quick tug to make sure he'd locked up when he'd taken Nella next door to Draper's last night. The door didn't budge. All was well. He could catch more sleep and open late this afternoon. His appointment book was unusually light, so he knew how he would spend most of his work evening.

Reading Rindlewinn.

He could feel in it his satchel right now. He imagined the book was getting heavier with each step that carried him away from their magical night and back into reality.

He couldn't afford to dabble in Nella's brand of magic. He had a job and bills to pay. Not to mention his... family complications. Shit went sideways in his world. He had little control over the things he was sometimes compelled to do. Nella didn't belong in a world like his.

So he'd finish reading Rindlewinn tonight after work, and he'd take it to her at Draper's tomorrow night. If they didn't get drunk, their date would probably be as awkward as their morning after. She'd leave the bar with her book, and he'd never hear from her again.

That would suck, but he was used to suck.

He passed through the lobby of his highrise condo. It was nice, the nicest place he'd ever lived, but he didn't own it. In two minutes, he was up the elevator to his apartment and across the trendy living space with its wall of glass and generous balcony. He paused in his march down the hallway and observed his roommate. Jayson stood in a small room with French doors opening into the hall and another set of French doors leading out to the balcony behind him. Jayson used the space as a home office since he worked from home most days.

The frantic state of his roommate was familiar to Baz, though he hadn't seen Jayson look quite this jacked up since college all-nighters. Jayson's black hair stuck out on the left from a continual raking, and he wore a crazed, over-caffeinated expression. He bounced on his toes as he waited on plans to print from a noisy plotter.

Baz knocked on the open glass door.

Jayson didn't look up as he scratched notes on the giant sheets of paper. "I should be pissed, you know. I waited at the diner last night for an hour."

"Shit. I totally forgot. Sorry. I'm buying the next three times."

As Baz edged away from the open door, Jayson looked up with a grin. Ah. He wasn't pissed at all.

"Where do you think you're going? The Bro Code states if you bail on plans with your buddy for a hook-up with a hottie, you make reparations."

"Dude, I just said I'll buy you three late-night greasy cheeseburgers."

"No thanks, I'll have the dirty deets, instead."

"There's no dirt," Baz lied.

"Bullshit. Word travels fast in this town; you were kissing a girl in Draper's last night, and you left with her."

"Fuck," Baz chuckled.

"I'm sure you did, and I want the story. Who was she?"

"Just a girl."

"Wild girl? Crazy girl?"

"Nice girl. Grad student girl. She came into the shop, and we went for a drink. Nothing... much... happened," he lied.

Maybe everything important that could ever happen to make his life feel right again had kicked off last night, but he checked the optimism and reminded himself it could just as easily have been a false start. Nella was cute as fuck this morning, but last night's chemistry was nowhere to be seen. Not to mention, he should not be messing with a girl like her.

"Dude, your walk of shame clearly shows you and this girl shared more than mojitos." Jayson's grin could only be described as shit-eating. "Feels like old times. Me... working my Filipino ass off. You and your lucky ass getting laid."

Baz laughed. When Jayson and Baz became freshmen roommates at NYU eight years ago, Jayson had been very sheltered and living for his parent's approval.

Enter Baz Hanlon, his connection to fake IDs, his motorcycle, and his luck with the ladies. Jayson's rebellion was all but inevitable at that point.

Even though Baz only lasted eighteen months at NYU, they kept in touch. When Jayson took a job in DC, and Baz convinced him that Coaling Springs was the perfect suburb from which to work, they became roommates once more. Baz paid half the rent, but Jayson was the condo owner.

Jayson stared down at the plans coming off the plotter, and Baz hoped his work would reclaim his attention, and the interrogation would end.

"Listen, I gotta crash. I'm exhausted."

"She was that good, huh?" Jayson crowed as Baz glowered at him and walked away. "Wow. You're going old school with the zipped lip. Come on, man. Give me something."

"She likes my dragon," he tossed over his shoulder.

"That's what you're calling your dick these days?"

Baz's response was a middle finger and a yawn. "My tattoo, asshole."

"Riiiight. Catch some zzz's for me. I haven't slept yet. Don't forget we're having some people over tonight! Pick up a second round of booze when you get off work, okay?"

###

Waking up for work came too early, but at least sleep had faded his headache. His schedule was like he expected—slow. He spent the evening reading Rindlewinn and was glad he had no clients, so he could lose himself in the story. He pictured Indahgia, the young shifter dragoness, with Nella's gold-flecked eyes.

Three times he almost pulled out pencil and paper to draw the dragon but fought the urge. He never sketched or painted anymore, except for tattoo designs. He had ruined his prospects for a career as a serious artist. What was the point in dabbling now?

When he closed up shop at ten, he swung onto his motorcycle and headed to the liquor store, filling the boot of his bike with bottles.

There were a dozen people at his apartment when he arrived. He recognized them all, but a particular trio drew his interest. Mitchell, the downstairs neighbor, conversing with two women Baz knew from the shop.

The girls differed from each other. One was a typical boho-chic—wearing her blonde hair in dutch braids, the same way she had the day he inked her. She had chosen Nevertheless; She Persisted across both her wrists. Wrists are tender skin, but she never flinched. He would give her that.

The other girl had short hair dyed like rubies, lending her a bad-ass faerie-soldier vibe. Frankie was her name. She and Baz had become fast friends when he inked her a year ago. Instead of a typical Pride flag, he'd designed her an abstract rainbow flame, overlayed with a black moon goddess symbol. She was wearing a halter top now, and he could see the tat on her upper spine from across the room. It suited her, and he felt happy, seeing good work worn so well.

He carried a handle of liquor to the trio.

Mitchell nodded. "Baz."

"Mitchell."

Jayson liked Mitchell well enough, but Baz felt like he could never get a read on the guy. Mitchell was tall and slim, fair and neat. The kind of cat that seemed like he belonged to an era with smoother music and dinner jackets. He had that kind of standoffishness that could either be natural introversion or snobbishness. Baz typically gave the guy the benefit of doubt and thought of him as reserved and not arrogant.

Baz leaned down, inspected Frankie's tat at close range. "Hey Frankie, the colors still look great."

Frankie grinned and held her cup out for more liquor. "It's hard to reach, but I still put sunscreen and lotion on it like you said."

Dutch Braids held out her wrists to the group, like an offering. "I love my tats. You did a great job."

She seemed to have some expectation that Baz would respond, and he didn't know what she wanted him to say, because three tiny words weren't a shining example of his work.

"I'm glad you like it. Healed nice."

She reached for his arm. "You remember me, right?"

He couldn't help but remember her. It wasn't her fault; she bore more than a passing resemblance to his ex-girlfriend. "Sure, I do. I remember you were a trooper. Wrists tats sting..." He was searching for her name because only Everly's came to mind when he saw her.

"Hazel."

"Right. Hazel."

She tossed her braids and held out her cup. He poured her more vodka for her, but Mitchell covered his drink. "I'm good, thanks."

A casual conversation ensued, in which Baz learned that Mitchell, Hazel, and Frankie were all in the same graduate program—creative writing. That was Nella's program, but he held back from mentioning her. Eventually, Frankie did it for him.

"So, I think you know another friend of ours," the ruby redhead said. "Nella Fischer? I saw you downtown together last night. I waived. But you two didn't see me."

Something old-fashioned in Baz compelled him to gentlemanly vagueness.

"She came by the shop, interested in a tattoo."

There was an awkward silence. Hazel and Mitchell seemed to be having their own silent conversation. Hazel's brows raising in Mitchell's direction and his lips tightening in response. Frankie hid a smile in her drink.

That's when Baz realized Frankie hadn't said she'd seen them together at the shop. She'd said... downtown. She must have seen them kissing at Draper's or maybe on the street afterward. Judging from the awkward silence, the gossip had traveled their little circle of three. Hell, Frankie was probably where Jayson had gotten his intel.

"Nella's cool. Great conversationalist," he said and sought the solace of his own cup. He hadn't given details to Jayson, and no way was he going to give this group any more fodder for their gossip mill.

"Nella and I co-teach a sophomore lit survey together. She's a good friend to have," Mitchell said with an uncomfortable smile, changing his mind about another round, downing the remains of his drink and reaching for the vodka.

The conversation lagged.

Baz wondered why. Did they think it was weird for one of their fellow grad students to hook up with a townie? Or did Mitchell have a thing for Nella, perhaps? Baz left their group, irritated. He shut himself in Jayce's office, closing the French doors so he could concentrate on finishing Rindlewinn.

Dozens of shadows striped the pages as he read—partygoers passing by on their way to the bathroom. He did not know to whom the shadows belonged. He was not there; he was in a world of dragons.

It was late—or extremely early — when he finished. He closed the book and stared at the cloth cover. The hunger he felt in Nella's bed last night had returned.

He craved.

He wanted more of this world, these dragons and questers. More than that, he wanted to see Nella again. Not tomorrow night, but now.

He knew he shouldn't show up at her place now. She was freaked out enough by their hook-up. No way could he go banging down her door in the middle of the night.

Speaking of banging doors, Jayson banged the glass door and threw it open. "What the hell, hermit? Come have a drink. It's your kind of party now. There are only four people left, and they are artsy as fuck."

It was not Baz's kind of party now. Not at all.

Mitchell, Hazel, Frankie, and a kid named Paul who lived in the building were the stragglers, discussing various professors in the English Department at TO. As Jayson shoved Baz back into the living room, he joked that all the writers were gossips but the tat guy was the one with his nose stuck in a book.

"What were you reading?" Mitchell queried, but the way he rattled his drink made Baz think he asked more from politeness than actual interest.

"A kind of... guilty pleasure thing. Nothing you literary types would be interested in," he hedged. He was aware that these were Nella's colleagues, and she had told him she had shown no one her manuscript, so he didn't want to talk out of turn.

"I read pretty much everything," Paul the undergrad said. "Is it something I should pick up?"

Frankie laughed. "You so read Harlequin romance, Paul..."

"Hey don't judge me because my erotic materials are more imaginative than most guys," Paul winked at her, but he returned to his question. "Seriously, did you find a good read, Baz?"

Baz poured himself a last scant bourbon and flopped into the one remaining chair, giving Jayson a shit-eating grin because now Jayce would have to find a place on the floor. "Great read, but it's not published. Just something a buddy of mine wrote."

"A buddy of yours?" Mitchell smiled. He pointed at Jayson. "That buddy?"

"Not me," Jayson assured them.

"Not him," Baz confirmed, "Although Jayce writes colorfully when it comes to leaving obnoxious neighbors sarcastic notes..."

"I can attest to that—it's how we met..." Paul laughs.

Baz thought he had guided the conversation away from Nella's secret manuscript, but Hazel returned to the subject. "So whose story have you been reading all evening, Baz? Maybe some girl's you're trying to impress?"

So Hazel had an idea that the manuscript was Nella's. Baz, whose entire life had made him guarded, doubled down on guarding Nella's secret.

"I don't really count the ability to read as one of my more impressive talents," Baz said dryly, and the entire room laughed. "But, like I said, a buddy of mine from college wrote the book. He's passing it around to a few friends who like fantasy novels, gathering feedback."

Baz knew well that the secret to landing a convincing lie was to couch it in truth, so he added, "it's good though. The world-building is incredible. Like... a spell. You don't realize how invested you are until the book is done, and..." Baz groped for a proper description, "and then, the spell is broken and you're back out in the cold, cruel real world." He took a hasty swallow of bourbon to cover his emotion.

Mitchell was staring at Baz, but it was Hazel who spoke again. "No wonder you and Nella hit it off. She loves the fantasy genre. I'm not even sure why she's getting an MFA; she doesn't seem to like literary fiction. She's our little black sheep."

Mitchell made a sound of disgust and snapped, "I thought this was a party, not our weekly critique group."

"I'm just saying, Mitchell. If Nella loves genre fiction so much, why doesn't she go write genre fiction? Why is she taking up space in our program if she doesn't want to be a serious writer?"

"She is a serious writer. She just likes to read fantasy, is all. You can't help who you love..." Frankie smirked.

"But she's trivializing her own work with fantasy sequences that don't work," Hazel protested. "Nella thinks she's above criticism. Why do we all have to edit with an eye toward feedback, while she gets a pass from our advisor?"

After a long moment, Mitchell sighed, "No one's giving her a pass, Hazel. Especially not Davidson. For Chrissakes, what she's undertaking with her thesis manuscript? It's not an easy story for her to tell. Have some fucking compassion."

Baz plunked down his cup and poured from the bourbon on the table. "So. You guys always talk shit about your friends behind their backs?"

Mitchell looked surprised. "We aren't talking shit about Nella. She's... an amazingly talented writer."

"It's what we do in our program," Hazel explained, playing with one of her braids. "We read each other's pages, and we offer feedback."

"Calling bullshit on that, Hazel." Baz took a drink. "If she's not here, then you aren't offering constructive criticism. You're just talking shit."

He glared at her. She colored and looked away.

Paul gave a nervous laugh and held his cup out toward Baz. "Well, what's a party without a little shit-talking, right?"

"I don't know about that, but here's to good bourbon on a Friday night." Baz clinked cups with him. If only the conversation were half as good. Like the one he'd had with Nella last night.

Mitchell changed the subject, addressing Jayson.

"Hey Jayce, we're all going to a writer's conference in New York—Hazel and Frankie, too. Give us some pro tips for Manhattan, yeah?"

As Jayson began an animated tutorial on New York-ing like a native, Baz escaped for bed.

He stopped by Jayson's office and opened Rindlewinn again, tracing his fingers across the flowing script. No wonder Nella felt uncomfortable showing it to anyone, considering how rough the criticism seemed to get in her critique group. He wondered what the story was behind her "serious" thesis work, and why Mitchell had admonished Hazel to have compassion.

He was too tired to speculate about it as he closed the cover of Nella's secret novel. It would be an incredible loss to the world if Nella kept Rindlewinn hidden away from it. He wondered if her mind was truly set on that as he turned off the lights in Jayson's office, shut the doors, and went to bed.

#

At five after ten the next night, Nella waited at Draper's, in the same dark booth where she had kissed Sexy Tat Guy two nights before, and talked herself into believing he was blowing her off. She was wondering if she could somehow arrange for her friend Dani to get her book back from Baz without confessing her cowardice in facing him when the bartender waded through the crowd with a bottle of wine.

"Nella, right?" he called above the typical collegiate din as he busied himself with the waiter's key, opening the wine. She was surprised he knew her name. Although she'd been in the bar several Friday nights with her friends, it was too crowded and rowdy for more conversation with the bartenders than "three drafts, please."

"I'm Don," he boomed. "Baz just called me. He wanted me to let you know he's still closing up shop next door. Had a last-minute walk-in. Asked me to take care of you."

Don pulled the cork, then re-stoppered it, which seemed like a strange thing to do, but then again he couldn't pour it, because he hadn't brought a glass. Instead of turning to retrieve one, he smiled at her. "Loud in here tonight. Baz was wondering if you might want to bring this bottle next door, where it's quieter?"

She bit her lip. "Is that... legal? Wondering out into the street with an open container?"

She knew the answer was no. Nella wasn't opposed to bending rules here and there, but Draper's bouncer tonight was a young, local, off-duty cop. Don followed her gaze to the door. "Oh, don't worry about Stamey. Just tell him you're only stepping next door to Baz's shop. He's a... friend of the DR, unlike the other local cops."

Now Nella was confused. "The DR?" He couldn't mean Baz's tat shop, could he? How could DR be short for Dreamweaver's?

"The Devil's Roadsters. The motorcycle club."

Don wasn't doing much to clear up Nella's confusion. "I've never heard of them..."

Something like concern flitted over Don's face. "If you're seeing Baz, you will," he mumbled, pulling his phone. "That's Baz again. Wants to know if you're coming over."

"Yeah, I guess so." It wasn't optional. She had to get her book back.

Don ushered her from the booth. "You and Baz should maybe exchange phone numbers." Sarcasm played around the edges of his tone. "And background information," he added beneath his breath as he strode away. Nella didn't think she was meant to hear that part, but she did.