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His head comes up. “I’m not surprised. I was trying to figure out how you took everything I told you and turned it into this.”

I glance at the artwork. “That’s what you hired me to do.”

“Yeah, but this is more than I expected.”

There’s no teasing in his voice, and I like hearing the respect in it far more than I want him to know. Before I can sit with that thought for too long, I reach for the supplies I’ll need to place the stencil.

“Take your shirt off.”

His eyebrows lift, and I immediately point toward his shoulder. “For the tattoo.”

He grins. “For the record, my thoughts were purely respectable.”

“I doubt that.”

Still smiling, he grabs the bottom of his shirt and pulls it over his head.

I’ve seen enough of Zander over the last few days to know exactly what kind of body is hiding under his clothes. The gray T-shirt he wore when we met hadn’t done much to hide the width of his shoulders or the lean line of his waist, and I’ve already spent more time than necessary thinking about it.

Turns out my imagination didn’t quite do him justice.

He isn’t bulky, but there’s solid muscle across his shoulders, chest, and upper arms, tapering into a lean waist above his jeans. A few older tattoos break up the bare skin on his forearm and ribs, leaving plenty of open space around the shoulder where my design will go.

For a second, the artist in me and the woman who lives next door to him are paying attention to two very different things. Professional instinct takes over before my thoughts can wander any further.

“Turn a little toward me.”

Zander shifts on the stool, and I clean the outside of his upper arm before shaving the small amount of hair from his shoulder. Once the skin is smooth, I wipe it down again and pick up the stencil, holding it against him without pressing yet.

“Don’t move for a second.”

He keeps still while I line up the top of the design with the curve of his shoulder. I press the stencil into place, peel the paper back carefully, then take a few steps away to look at him.

The purple lines curve over his upper arm toward his shoulder, but the highest one sits too close to the top of his deltoid and throws off the placement.

“No. It’s too high.”

Zander looks toward the mirror, then back at me. “Whatever you think. You’re the expert.”

I peel the stencil away and clean his skin again. On the second try, I shift the design down and slightly toward the back of his arm. It’s a small adjustment, but it changes everything. The longest line now follows the shape of his deltoid instead of cutting across it, and the sound wave sits where it’ll stay visible when his arm is relaxed.

I walk around him once, checking it from the front and side before nodding toward the mirror. “Take a look.”

Zander gets up and turns slightly in front of it. The stencil is still only purple transfer ink, more blueprint than tattoo, but I can already see how the finished piece will sit on him. The tour route sweeps upward instead of looking like a literal path, while the tighter peaks of the Amsterdam waveform break through the center. Smaller marks disappear and reappear along the curve, subtle enough that no one would know they represent individual stops unless Zander told them.

He rotates his shoulder, watching the design move with him. “I like it better here.”

“So do I.”

He meets my eyes in the mirror. “Was that agreement?”

“Don’t get used to it.”

Still smiling, Zander settles onto the tattoo table and turns onto his side so I can reach his upper arm. I adjust the bolster, pull on fresh gloves, and finish setting up.

The routine settles me fast. Once I start working, I can focus on the stencil, his skin, and getting the lines right instead of the fact that he’s shirtless and much too close.

I position his arm where I need it and brace my hand against him. “Let me know if you need a break.”