Chapter Two

A week later, more or less

"Alright, little lady, if you need anything, and I mean, anything at all," Matt Donovan touched the brim of his deputy's hat with two fingers and winked, "you know how to reach me."

Elena laughed at how deliberately cheesy he was being. Of course she knew how to reach him. And she didn't even have to call 911. She could just call his private cell directly, since she already had the number saved in hers.

Good ol' Matty Blue-Eyes, the All-American golden boy personified. A long time ago, they'd dated when they were young teenagers and still in high school, but now he was simply one of her oldest and dearest friends who'd been patrolling the area in his police cruiser and thoughtfully stopped in to check on her.

"Thanks, Matt. Tell Penny she needs to stop by once I get this place open. Shouldn't be too long." Her gaze wandered down the sections of wall still needing a new coat of paint. "Hopefully."

"I definitely will." Satisfied that his assistance wasn't needed, he gave a last wave and left.

Outside her shop, it was a beautiful summer day. People were strolling around the square, enjoying the sunshine and the local cafe. Her front door was propped open to take advantage of the weather and to help ventilate the overpowering smell of chemicals as she painted. She'd ended up settling on complementary shades of warm cream and pink. She couldn't wait to be done, so she could show Diana. Pink was her favorite color.

It was definitely still a work in progress, but slowly but surely, as she worked at rehabbing the place with the help of her friends, her dream was taking shape.

She hoped Caroline and Bonnie returned soon from their coffee run. While she was bringing her dream to life, she sure could use a bit of a pick me up.

As she waited, she continued painting. At one point, while lifting her paint roller high overhead, a viscous glob of pink paint dripped right onto her cheek, startling in its coldness.

Wow. That was definitely not what she'd been trying to do. She automatically attempted to wipe it away by rubbing her cheek on the sleeve of her old t-shirt. Judging by the amount of paint she now felt smeared across her cheekbone and underneath her eye, her attempt did not go well.

Putting her roller down, she began looking for a rag to try wiping again, and if that didn't work, she'd visit the bathroom in the back.

The sensation of being observed skittered over her skin just as a long black shadow darkened the threshold of her shop, thrown against the white flooring in long, ominous, stark lines. Elena looked over, fully expecting – hoping - it to be Bonnie and Caroline back with coffee and snacks, or at the very least, Matt poking his head in again to rattle off another silly comment. Instead, she was confronted with the sight of one gorgeous Damon Salvatore filling up her doorway, heavily inked arms at his sides, dark hair framing an expression of cautious friendliness and blue eyes that banished any thought of Matt's.

She groaned inwardly, even as her heart leapt at the sight.

Beyond irritated at her foolishness, she scrubbed her hands quickly on the ancient, threadbare t-shirt she wore. Wisps of hair had haphazardly escaped the ponytail tied long and low on the nape of her neck, and she took a moment to brush those back. Of course he couldn't have shown up five seconds earlier when she didn't have paint smeared all on her face. And of course she was wearing old clothes that didn't matter if they got covered in paint, so she looked and felt not frumpy, exactly, but definitely less than her best. In front of him. Her irritation flared even brighter. Why did she give a rat's ass about her appearance at all in front of him?

She didn't, obviously.

Obviously.

"Hey, neighbor," he offered into the silence. Sexy stubble shadowed his jaw and upper lip. Good lord, he'd only gotten finer with age.

But he was still bad news. And she wanted him gone. Immediately.

Cocking her hip, she crossed her arms, a clear standoffish warning. "We're closed. Can't you tell?" Her tone was ice cold, an arctic blast. Her southern upbringing made it tough to be so blatantly rude, but this was a matter of self-preservation on her part. And she had nothing nice to say to him, anyway.

He heard the ice, cleared his throat, and came in further anyway. The sexy bastard. "The door was open. Literally."

"So you just barged in?"

A hint of a smile played about his lips. "I'm simply following the precedent you yourself set a few days ago." He paused. "Did you know you have some paint …." A quick gesture at his cheek.

She blew out a breath, blowing some hair out of her face. She was not doing this with him. She wasn't mad anymore – mostly – just resigned. And maybe a little resentful. But all that aside, she just wanted him gone as soon as possible. That was the only thing that would keep her safe. Distance. She needed him to stay away. Far away.

"Why are you here?" Implied in her tone was, And how soon are you leaving?

He sighed, and his eyes made a circuit around her shop-in-progress. Sunlight glinted off midnight dark hair. His piercings glittered like tiny twinkling stars. "I'm here to start over, Elena," he said. "I came back home to open my own shop and make a life and maybe – maybe fix some of the things I messed up a long time ago."

She gave him a weird look. "Ooo-kay, good luck with that. I guess. I meant, what are you doing in my store?"

He gave her an answering look, sharp and penetrating as a blade, and being the sole focus of Damon Salvatore's undivided attention was such an unnerving sensation that it made her knees go weak. Without breaking their stare, she reached out for to an unpainted section of the wall for support, praying she wouldn't humiliate herself in front of him.

Damn him. He'd already taken on Jeremy as his apprentice, against her explicitly stated wishes. How else was he going to mess up her life?

As if he sensed the effect he had on her, he grinned, part smirk, part smolder, and extended a hand full of mail, stamped and sealed envelopes as well as brightly colored flyers.

She frowned, not sure what was going on. Her first irrational impulse was to smack his hand away but instead, inexplicably, that impulse turned to fascination as her eyes were drawn to the back of his hand. Specifically the black tattoo shaped like a rose. Bold ink, full-faced and eye-catching. Dark and carnal. There were letters or symbols on his elegant artist's fingers that hadn't been there seven years ago. She couldn't make out what they said.

Her eyes moved back up, and this time they snagged on the line of black ink curling right in the hollow of his pale throat, only barely visible above the collar of his shirt. She tried not to stare, she really did. But tattoos had never looked better than they did on this man, and she found herself longing to press her lips to that little indent, to trace that dark line with her tongue and savor the saltiness of his skin, to explore every ridge and cut of muscle ….

Whoa, she needed to get control of herself. If anyone asked, she was pleading temporary insanity.

It didn't help that he started moving closer, slowly, the way one would approach a wounded animal, his scent piercing even through the chemical paint smell, filling the air, invading her space, that dark, spicy, masculine scent that could really drive a woman wild.

She gulped and backed up a step, hand still on the wall as a steadying point, before she realized what she was doing.

Aaand the very next thing on her to do list would be to install the checkout counter, so she could hide behind it.

Heart pounding, she let go of the wall and snatched the mail from him. Maybe that would stop him from coming any closer. She flipped through the stack of discount flyers and letters. All addressed to her.

"Did you steal my mail?" She looked at him incredulously. "I'm pretty sure that's a federal offense."

Her accusation made a furrow mar his brow. "Huh? No, I'm returning your mail. Some of it was delivered to my place by mistake."

"You could've just dropped it in the box." Referring to the mail box on the front of every store front in the square. That he surely knew about and had most like seen on his way in.

"I could have, but then I wouldn't be able to see the look of profuse gratitude on your face for myself."

Looking him directly in the face, she tossed all of it in a nearby trashcan. "Junk."

"Ah, sorry I bothered you, then."

She closed her eyes before reopening them and forcing a fake smile. "It's fine. Thank you for taking the time to make sure they got to the right place."

She went back to the row of paints cans and pretended like she was busy moving things around, hoping he would get the hint and leave.

He nodded slowly. Thoughtfully. But he wasn't moving. He wasn't getting the hint.

She picked up a stick and started stirring the paint, desperately wishing that Caroline and Bonnie would get back right now.

Grrr. He still wasn't leaving. And she needed him to leave. And stay away. And not just because he was a grade A douche bag. She couldn't chance him finding out anything involving her personal life. It was none of his business.

He leaned one shoulder on a section of the wall that was still a dry white, lazily, all nonchalant and unaffected. "I think we started off on the wrong foot the other day."

She threw down the stick she was using to stir the paint. Pink droplets splattered onto the tarp and one of her shoes, because why not? Her face was already pink - why not her feet, too? It was just par for the freaking course. Her features twisted with disbelief. "I think we started off on the wrong foot seven years ago." After all, he'd left without a second thought and never looked back even once.

Silence as he absorbed her anger, then, "Yeah, that's … fair."

Fair? No, it wasn't fair at all. It wasn't fair that what he'd done had hurt her so much but meant so little to him. It wasn't fair that he got to float through life always avoiding his responsibilities and never facing the consequences of his actions. But she wasn't going to utter that aloud. She'd already sounded pathetic enough.

"You know what?" she said stiffly, looking down, "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said anything. Please forget I did." And please just go!

"No need to apologize," he said quietly, "I get why you don't like me."

"How big of you," she practically snarled.

He was silent for so long that she almost asked him what his problem was. She glanced up, and her eyes locked with his, a horrible mistake, and time froze. She couldn't breathe. Couldn't speak. Couldn't think. Why did he have to be so damn hot? It's like her body didn't even care at all about how dangerous he was. It didn't care at all that he was pure poison wrapped up in a mouth-wateringly gorgeous package.

"You know," he responded finally, "I'm not the same person I used to be. I've changed, and in the spirit of being practically neighbors now, I was thinking - hoping maybe we could start over. Let bygones be bygones, if you will."

"You took Jeremy on as your apprentice, so I don't really think you've changed all that much at all."

He shrugged shamelessly, longish hair tumbling into his eyes. He swept it back. "I'm not going to apologize for that. I'd do it again. He'll have all of his safety certifications down in no time, and for now, he's cleaning and restocking and answering phone calls. Given how busy we've been since we opened, I don't know what we'd do without him."

His smug answer made her hands curl into fists. "Oh, really? How busy you've been? And just how many people in Mystic Falls a day come in to get piercings and tattoos?" As soon as she asked, she knew it was a stupid question. He was good enough to have a following from all over and a wait list that ensured he never had to rely on walk-ins. Damon Salvatore's clients came to him.

Plus, he was hot enough that he could probably just go stand on the side walk outside his shop and drive in business that way – every female who walked by would want him to lay his hands on them. Some of the males, too.

That generous but cruel mouth pulled up at one corner into a crooked smile. "You'd be surprised. It's quite common for piercings and tattoos to become addictive. Please your client once, and they can't wait to come back for more. And I never," black eyebrows rose and fell suggestively, "leave them disappointed."

Wait … was he actually flirting with her? Seriously? The audacity. "Oh, I bet. Does 'they' by any chance happen to be fake, plastic skanks that ask you to tattoo their naughty bits in breathy little hussy voices?" Damn, she hated how jealous that comment made her sound. She didn't mean to sound jealous. Because she wasn't. At all. She'd never let Damon tattoo her naughty bits. He could do other things to them though. No, he couldn't! Argh. The mental anguish was real.

Meanwhile, Damon threw his head back and laughed. "Tattoo their naughty bits? Pierce maybe. Usually not tattoo."

"Whatever," she said, blushing.

He shifted closer, humor gone, blue eyes hooded. "I think you have a mistaken impression about what I do. And who my type is."

He was definitely flirting with her now. This was surreal. She sidestepped a can of paint and swiveled and started backing away from him, in the direction of the most recently painted section of wall. "No need to correct that impression. I don't care who your type is. And if you're so busy, maybe you should get back to your store."

"Enzo has it under control."

Wonderful, she thought. Bully for Enzo.

Alarmingly, he followed her, a stalking predatory animal, and unfortunately, she was the prey in his sights. The more he ate up the physical distance between them, the more nervous she became.

"Damon," she rasped. It was meant to be a warning, but that's not what it sounded like. It sounded like she was begging him for … something.

"Tattooing is … a personal experience," he said. It sounded like he was making her a promise. "And the act of placing your hands on someone's body and tattooing them is deeply intimate. I would never abuse that privilege to get laid. I don't need to. My only goal is to create art. Art that pleases its canvas." He moved closer, crowding her. "You should come in one day and see what I mean. Just let me know when, and I'll clear my schedule. Whatever you want. On the house."

"Really? You'd do that for me?" she asked breathlessly, backing up until she was almost but not quite touching the wall. His nearness flared through her like lightening, made her brain shut off and her body turn on.

"Absolutely," he was quick to answer, "what're neighbors for?"

She had no doubt that those pale blue eyes had noted her reaction. They flickered and darkened, and the erotic promise she could see lurking there practically slammed her into the vise of an old memory - Damon kissing her, touching, groping, shoving her back against the wall, the strong grip of his hands on her ass, lifting her up and pounding into her hard and raw, both of them sweating and breathing hard.

Before she could strike the provocative image from her mind, a tight, aching pull of desire grew and settled right where it had no business settling.

Jeez, why did it have to be this man who was her erotic Achilles heel? It was wrong and inconvenient and ridiculous. Caroline and Bonnie were always trying to hook her up with guys, and clearly, she needed to start seriously considering taking them up on it. Maybe if she started dating and got laid regularly – she wasn't even going to try and remember how long it'd been – then this horrible and sexy man wouldn't bother her so.

At the very least, she needed to invest in a high quality, battery operated boyfriend.

She bit her bottom lip in what she hoped was a provocative fashion. She had to make sure his attention was on her and not anything else. It must've worked because his eyes zeroed in on her mouth with the alacrity and precision of laser beams, drawing him even closer.

"What kind of tattoo should I get?" she asked, hating the husky quality of her voice. She was not doing it on purpose.

He leaned in, about to brace his hands on opposite sides of her shoulders. There was a hint of wildness about those fierce, angular features, and tension emanated from his hard body. But she didn't feel frightened. No, he made her feel vibrant, sharp, alive. Exhilarated.

"Whatever you want, pretty girl. Just tell me, and I'll - " His eyes went wide and lost their seductive focus as soon as his palms made full contact with the freshly painted, still wet wall. There was an audible wet, sticky sound.

Damon straightened up hastily, granting her space and mercy. Thank god. She could breathe again. Though her body was still humming with unfulfilled need.

He gazed at his pink palms with a scowl.

She released a giggle. She couldn't help it. He looked so disgruntled.

He gave her a playfully offended look. "That was not funny."

She clapped her hands over her mouth in a futile attempt to contain the humor that only bubbled forth more freely.

He held his pink palms up for her viewing pleasure. "At least we match now."

Laughter had released some of her tension, and she touched the drying paint smear on her own cheek which she'd momentarily forgotten, regarding him with an easy smile. Finally locating a white rag, she passed it over so he could wipe his hands.

"Sorry, that wasn't kind of me. I should've warned you about the wet paint." It had been undeniably petty of her not to say anything, but she'd take the tiny amount of satisfaction where she could. "You can wash your hands in the bathroom in the back."

"This is fine," he said, leaving pink streaks on the white fabric, "and don't apologize. Totally my fault. I should've realized the paint was still wet."

She laughed again. "Yeah, you should've."

He smiled at her, so handsome and disarming that an inexplicable little thrill of delight went through her. She smiled back and lost herself in his gorgeous blue eyes.

"I like it."

"Huh?" she asked.

"The colors you chose." He looked at the pink on his hands and the pink and cream sections of the wall with an artist's eye. "The colors make me think of dessert. Raspberry and vanilla. Cotton candy and sugar cookies." He let his gaze swing back to her, as though it couldn't stay away for long. "Good enough to eat."

She was pretty sure he was hitting on her again. And he was the one good enough to eat. For some god only knows reason, she experienced a sudden graphic vision of going to her knees, undoing his belt buckle, and opening her lips, so he could defile her mouth with that magical cock of his. God, yes. No. Yes. No!

She tried to swallow, but couldn't. Her mouth was bone dry, all the moisture evaporated under his frighteningly perceptive blue scrutiny. Could he possibly tell what she was thinking?

A car honked outside, just someone driving by, but the sound drew her attention to the window and jolted her back to reality. She was seriously losing it. Daydreaming about giving a blow job to the absolutely last person she should be daydreaming about.

She gave herself the equivalent of a hard mental slap. Don't let him make you forget what he is – a ginormous mindfuck.

When her gaze snapped back from the window, she shot him her meanest, hardest glare, mad that he'd lulled her into falling for him for even one second. He'd been hitting on her. The arrogant jerk. Did he expect her to just roll over and welcome him back with open legs? Or was it just so automatic, he couldn't turn it off? Without waiting for his reaction, she challenged, "See? You haven't changed at all. Still as arrogant as ever. You think you can just blow through town with your – your bad-boy charm, looking like the embodiment of some morally bankrupt, tattooed sex god, and do whatever you want, no matter the consequences or who gets hurt in the process."

He cocked his head. "Tattooed sex god?"

"Of course that's the only part you heard. Well, hear this, Damon, I've changed, too. I'm not the same naïve little girl you can just fool and take advantage of this time around."

He frowned. "Is that what you think happened?"

"What I think is that I want nothing to do with you. What I think is that you're a terrible person, and if you could just go and stay on your side of the square, that would work out best for everyone."

"So … that's a no on the whole bygones thing, then?" he asked.

"Have a nice day, Damon." She looked away and purposefully turned her back on him, hoping that if she ignored him hard enough, he would leave.

This time, it worked.

He slowly retreated, making his way out of her store, the sounds of his boots squeaking slightly on the floor. He lingered in the doorway for a last moment or two, and she felt his gaze like a tangible caress on her back. When he finally left, a sigh of relief erupted from her. It took all of her willpower to resist sneaking a look over her shoulder in order to catch one last glimpse of him. She'd meant what she said. She wasn't that girl anymore. Damon Salvatore meant nothing to her.