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“Very cool,” I said. “Be careful you don’t get the tattoo bug. Not many people can claim to just have one.”
Instead of shaking her head, insisting she was one and done, Charlee continued to look at her wrist. “I can see why. I feel so. . . badass.”
God, she was cute. “That is a very badass tattoo,” I lied.
Our eyes met. “Thank you,” she said.
“You’re welcome. By the way, the wrist is one of the most sensitive spots. That one probably hurt more than most.”
Her jaw dropped. “Are you kidding me?”
“I’m not.”
Clearly she was proud of herself for having endured the torture of a wrist tattoo. Charlee took a deep breath. “Soooo, can we talk now?”
“Isn’t that what we’ve been doing?”
“You know what I mean.”
Unfortunately, I did. Time to open old wounds, I supposed. “Let me wrap that up. And then we’ll talk.”
The second I grabbed her wrist, though, the last thing I wanted to do was talk. Which was a very dangerous thought indeed.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
charlee
For a second, I thought he would pull me toward him. Instead, he placed a sort of plastic wrap over my tattoo, taped it, and let go.
Had I seriously gotten a tattoo today?
And had Lucas seriously said, There is a side to me that is very comfortable outside the limits of societal acceptance? What did that mean exactly?
The possibilities were endless.
“What do you drink these days?”
He moved toward a back room, and I couldn’t see him anymore. But I had gotten a glimpse of a very fine ass on his way out. Lucas was definitely built differently now than before. He’d always had muscles, but now they bulged. Clearly the man worked out, and it made me want to actually use that gym membership that collected dust only to be used every January.
“Lots of things. Vodka. Red wine,” I called to him. Did he have a bar back there? “Drier the better.”
I heard a refrigerator door open, and then a few minutes later, Lucas came back out with a beer and glass of red wine.
“I guess it’s happy hour,” I said, taking it from him.
“Against my better judgment,” he said, sitting back on the wheeled stool. “Feel free,” he said, gesturing to a couch.
I got up from the chair and took him up on the offer, sitting in the corner of it, arm propped up on the edge with wine. I took a sip. “Not bad.”
“Only the best for a Donovan.”
First shot fired.
“I guess that’s supposed to be some kind of dig?”
He shrugged. “I said what I said.”
“So, yes.”
