He stood, stacking her empty plate on his before carrying them to the sink. “In my religion, you can have all the candy, dancing and sex with me that you can stand.”

“Hm. Well, perhaps conversion is something worth considering.”

“First things first. Tattoos.”

He got such a smug expression she was torn between amusement and annoyance. Men. “It’s probably going to take at least two sessions, maybe three. Your design has a lot of shading. Just the outlining alone will take several hours. I can do it here if you like. Or you can come to my place or the shop.”

“The shop is near Green Lake, isn’t it?”

“Yes. Near the zoo. The regular hours are eleven to ten. But I can work around that if you need.”

“Oh, I do need. But not that. Where is your place?”

“Capitol Hill.” Really only about ten minutes from his place.

“And you could do it here you said?”

“You’ll need a comfortable chair or a table to lie on. It needs to be the right height so I can work and not be stooped over. I’ll have all the sterilized equipment with me, no matter where I do it.”

“I don’t have a tattoo table. But, and you’re going to think I’m such a rich ass**le, I do have a massage table. In my defense, I had to get surgery on my knee several years ago and the physical therapy involved massages. Because my schedule is crazy, they came out here. It’s in a closet, but would that work?”

She laughed. “You are a rich ass**le. But it should, depending on how high it is. I can work back and forth between a chair and the table. It should keep you more comfortable too.”

He glowered and then stomped over, pulling her into his arms to kiss her hard and fast.

“I have to warn you that if insulting you gets me kissed, this is a negative-association thing. I’ll have to keep it up to get more.”

His dark look faded, replaced by a smile. “I’m not an ass**le.”

“Hmm. I have a theory about this. Would you like to hear it?”

“Come with me.” He tugged and she followed. “You can tell me on the way.”

“Where are you taking me?”

“Anywhere you’ll let me. Tell me your theory.”

“My theory is about rich people in general. So you’re multi-generational rich. Old money, established family.”

“You seem to know a lot about me.”

“Yes, when I set my plan to get pregnant and trap you into marriage so I could live it up, I had a dossier created about you. It was either that or, say, live in Seattle where you’re in the paper. Oh, or be friends with people who know your brother and his girlfriend.”

He paused, looking her up and down. “Ouch.”

“Indeed. Anyway, back to my theory. Second– or third-gen wealth produces trust-fund ass**les who think work is red carpet for so-called charity events in between long bouts of shopping and partying. Rehab is involved sometimes. Marrying older men from other rich families who are supposed to calm Ms. Trust Fund and have her start breeding for the cause. But then there are those families who believe in noblesse oblige. Those successive generations make their kids have jobs. Raise them with a sense of responsibility and gratitude for their situation. Those kids, like you and Levi, work their asses off. But there’s no getting around the simple fact that having money changes your life. You’re accustomed to things like shorter lines at the airport, better service, nicer hotel rooms, your clothes are made better, you eat better. All that stuff. So you’re not an ass**le like some who’d yell at the cleaning lady or the valet. You were raised better than that. But you have a sense of entitlement. Not like the trust-fund kids, but it’s there. You were raised with it. You can’t get around it. You don’t like being told no. You don’t like being refused things. You wouldn’t have this house and your expensive wristwatch if you weren’t an ass**le in some sense. You work for it and you have to overcome what some in your community do to be taken seriously.”

“You’re pretty smart.”

She frowned. “For a gal who grew up in Happy Bend, Arkansas?”

“Now see, there you are.”

“Here I am?”

He continued to draw her upstairs. “Yes. Happy Bend. Sounds like a lovely small town. Also, working hard and coming from money doesn’t make me an ass**le.”

“It’s not Mayberry. It’s a shithole filled with ass**les, alcoholics and losers.” She clamped her lips shut against the words. “Anyway, I explained to you the difference between the ass**le who throws cell phones at the help and the ass**le who works hard but has a sense of entitlement to the best things in life. For instance, do you know how often I get asked by people if I do house calls?”

“No, but I get the feeling you’re going to smack me with the point and I’m going to have to admit you’re right.”

“You should always assume that. But in this case, people ask for me to come to their homes very rarely. Sometimes if someone is recovering from a health issue that makes it hard for them to get out. But mainly, it’s mover-and-shaker types. Who are simply used to being catered to. Now, like I said, there’s a difference between types of ass**les. If there wasn’t, I wouldn’t be allowing you to get me into your bedroom.”

“How do you know that’s where I’m taking you?”

“Because you want to f**k me.”