Page 128 of Micah

Not polished.

Not magazine-cover handsome.

Better.

He's rugged in a way that makes my knees feel suspiciously unreliable.

A strong square jaw dusted with a beard that's maybe half an inch long.

Dark brows that frame those impossible eyes.

A straight nose that looks like it’s never been broken but probably has been, at least once.

His is the kind of face that tells a story before he ever opens his mouth.

My gaze wanders lower.

To the ink curling beneath the collar of his T-shirt.

I've noticed the tattoos before.

Along his forearms.

Across the backs of his hands.

One disappearing beneath his sleeve.

I've spent more than one shift behind the bar wondering what the rest of them looked like.

I bite my lip.

“I wonder if you have more.”

“I do.”

I blink.

“What?”

His mouth twitches.

“The tattoos.”

Oh.

Oh no.

Heat floods my cheeks.

“I... I said that out loud?”

“You did.”

He isn't laughing.

If anything...

He looks interested.