Page 88 of I Choose You

I stared at the ink and felt her slight tremble. I was playing with fire here. “What does this one mean?”

“That I’m capable of anything,” she said, turning toward me to show how the design trailed over her shoulder and down her back.

I smoothed my fingers over the lines, rubbing into her muscles. “You are,” I whispered.

Her hair tickled my arm as she lifted her hand. She slid her fingers along my jaw and turned me for a kiss.

It was firm, wet and insistent, but she drew back too soon.

I took it as the gift it was, but I didn’t want to push. She had to call the shots. She had to come to me and tell me what she wanted. After the almost cold-shoulder treatment she’d given me for days, insisting on keeping everything professional, I didn’t want to assume anything.

She rested her forehead to mine, and I covered her hand on my face. Dragging my fingers lower, I pulled back and considered the dramatic design of an eye on her forearm.

“What’s this one for?” I asked, circling my finger over the beautiful, detailed work of art.

“It’s to remind me that beauty is in the eye of the beholder.”

I frowned. Sure I’d heard it before, but on her arm? Was it a twist on who the beholder was? “What does that mean?”

She scooted back, but I didn’t lose hope. Our fingers remained twined together as she sat back next to me. “I felt ugly for a very long time when I was young.” Her shoulder lifted. “I still do.”

My heart ached at her words and the vulnerability she showed me in admitting that.

“Sometimes my skin doesn’t feel like my own.”

Before or after the tattoos? I hadn’t considered the possibility her tats were a mask to hide behind.

I’d heard of dysmorphia but I’d never thought much about it. I suspected it impacted girls and women much more than men, and that was a vicious cycle that would take generations to break.

Is this why she’s always looking in mirrors? Why she checks herself out with that critical expression? I thought back to all those instances I’d noticed her inspecting her appearance, and I couldn’t help but wonder if this was why.

30

BROOKE

Jesus. Why did I have to open my mouth?

I’d felt so comfortable with him. Between the delicious dinner and the warm, soothing touch of his hand massaging me, I was relaxed. Maybe too relaxed to share such deep, personal truths.

Thank God I didn’t drink too much.

Because I would have surely spilled way too many truths.

Hating my body and being self-conscious about it was something I’d lived with. Acknowledging that flaw was one hurdle to overcome. But telling someone about it? Huge deal. I hadn’t been this honest and sharing about this topic with my mom. Rena knew, but here I was telling Kaden.

It ruined the mood. He stared at me intently, and fuck, I hated the idea that he pitied me or felt sorry for me.

“Now, this one,” I said, infusing more volume and sass into my tone, “is the only one that I can call a mistake.”

His gaze dragged down, following my hand as I tugged my shirt up and lowered the waist of my skirt just a bit.

He cracked up, erasing the funky feeling of the serious talk from before. “Is that a Playboy bunny?”

He smeared his thumb over it, and I jerked back, startled by his touch there.

“It was supposed to be. I dared Rena into getting ink and she said only if I did too.”

“Let me guess.” He grinned at me. “She got to pick it?”