Free The Strongest Steel by Scarlett Cole Page A

extreme view, don’t you think?” Holy cow, had she just heard herself giggle?
    “Not really. Liking red licorice and black licorice is an oxymoron.”
    “That’s not an oxymoron. An oxymoron is an adjective-noun combination that combines contradictory terms … like ‘living dead.’ Liking red and black licorice is not.”
    “Wow. Into Scrabble. Knows fancy definitions for shit. You an English teacher or something?”
    “Yes, I … I mean, no. I work in a coffee shop. I just like words is all.” Her stomach turned. Why on earth had she nearly revealed her previous career to him? Her job had been her passion—she’d loved it more than anything. Not that she could do it again. She’d need to register her papers and use her real name and that wasn’t going to happen. Nathan would find her.
    “I’m still holding you to Scrabble, but first there’s something else we need to do today.” He put the packet of licorice back behind the desk. “Are you good?” he asked.
    Wasn’t that the million-dollar question?
    *   *   *
    So she was an English teacher. Interesting development. Why on earth wasn’t she teaching? Schools all over the city were crying out for great teachers. Today wasn’t the day to push her for information, but he wanted to know.
    “This will be our room for the next however many hours this takes. The transfers are ready over there for us. Want to take a look before we get started?”
    The hand he was holding was frozen to the bone. The fingers on her other hand were flaring again. Nervousness seeped from her. Every protective instinct in him was screaming to pull her into his arms and hold her there.
    “We’ll shave your back and then place these transfers on it. I’m going to do it with you standing so I can make sure they end up straight. If it’s okay with you, I’ll ask Cujo to help me out rather than cut it into pieces.”
    “How did you make these?” Harper picked up the layers of what looked like old-school copy paper.
    “Some I drew by hand, some I ran my sketch through the thermo fax, kind of like a fax machine for tattoo designs.”
    “I’m making this difficult for you, aren’t I?” Harper suddenly turned to face him. “I mean, I bet you normally have to hold people back. People travel to see you and can’t wait to get started. They just want to get a tattoo done by you—you being amazing and all.” Her mouth curved into a small smile. “You’ve had to literally hold my hand,” she said, lifting their joined hands, “every step of the way.”
    “Everyone is different, Harper. If it helps, this is probably the most unique situation I’ve ever been in. Can’t say I usually have to literally hold someone’s hand through it, but it’s no hardship and I’ll help you get through this any way I can.”
    “I never wanted a tattoo, you know. Before, I mean. I would never have thought about getting one if this hadn’t happened.” She turned to face him, squeezing his fingers so tightly he wondered if it was possible to cut off his blood supply. “If surgery to remove the scars had been an option, I probably would have gone that route instead.”
    Trent tried to ignore the churning feeling in his stomach. He wished she hadn’t told him, wished he didn’t know that she so disliked something that was a fundamental part of who he was.
    He led her to the back table to see the transfers, transfers that he hoped held some of the best work he had ever done. She had no idea how much of himself he had invested in the detail of the design. He hoped that given time, she’d value the tattoo as more than just a trick to hide the scars and come to see it as a statement about who she was, what she stood for. “You know guys love a hot chick with a bad-ass tattoo, right?” he said, wanting to bring a smile back to her solemn face.
    “I’m probably the least bad-ass person there is. I play Scrabble and bring pastry thank-yous. Bad-ass for me is not recycling my