sucked my finger into his mouth, his eyes dancing with amusement.
“I love the way your smile reaches your eyes when you’re happy.” I moved my other hand to caress his cheek. “And, God, those eyes. They are the most haunting shade of blue I’ve ever seen.”
His eyes darkened and his expression grew solemn, arousal shadowing his gaze.
“You see into a girl’s soul with those eyes. Don’t you?”
He didn’t answer and I moved on, aware that I was getting a little serious when I’d intended to lighten the mood. I cleared my throat, and he released my finger. My hands wandered, traveling across his shoulders and down those finely muscled arms. I stopped halfway down, my thumbs caressing the dark bands that circled his muscles.
“I love your tattoos,” I said. “I don’t understand them, but I get the feeling there’s a lot of meaning there. It’s fascinating. They’re like hieroglyphics or a secret code.”
Great job, genius , I yelled at myself. Pretty sure that’s an off limits topic, right? Didn’t he say the tattoos had something to do with all the bad stuff?
“That’s exactly what they are.”
“I’m sorry. You don’t have to tell me.”
“No, it’s okay,” he said softly. “The tattoos mark pivotal moments in my life,” he continued. “Both good and bad. Anything that I feel has left a mark on my soul, I mark my body in kind. As remembrance.”
“Wow.”
“The one at my wrist, the one you noted earlier, it was the first.”
I swallowed and searched for something to say. “It was bad,” I said lamely.
“Very bad,” he whispered. “The kind of bad that divides your life into before and after. The kind that blows you apart into a thousand jagged pieces and you can’t imagine that there will be any way to put yourself together again. So you don’t. You don’t even try, not for a very long time. Instead, you just walk through life a glued together facsimile of a man. All the joy of the world passing through the cracks in your facade like water through a sieve, nothing ever staying, nothing ever filling you up.”
My breath caught in my throat and I felt hot tears prick at the corners of my eyes, threatening to flood my vision.
“I know exactly what you mean,” I whispered, and he crushed me to him.
6
“ I s my nose still red ?” I asked him. We lay in my bed, my head on his chest, his arms around me, stroking my hair.
I’d made a mess of myself crying all over him in the shower, the recognition of our shared trauma surprising me, overwhelming me. He’d just held me, lifted me in his arms and carried me to my room.
“Let me see.”
I raised my head from his chest and set my chin on my hand.
“A bit,” he said, tapping me lightly on the nose.
“Great.” I rolled my eyes. “That’s a good look.”
“Nonsense, you look adorable. Like the consumptive heroine of a Pre-Raphaelite painting.”
I arched an eyebrow at him. “Seriously?”
“What? That’s a compliment. I love classical babes.”
“So I assume you had Rossetti posters on your teenage walls and not Farrah Fawcett?”
“Farrah Fawcett? How old do you think I am?”
“I don’t know!” I shrieked as he tickled me, slapping his hands away from my ribs. “From how you talk about Shakespeare I just figured you guys were friends.”
“Oh my God. I’m only thirty-two.”
Duly noted , I thought. Filing the information away for the next time my mother decided to interrogate me.
“How is it that you’re a Scrabble champion?” he asked me as we lay in my bed. “I’ve been thinking about it for days.”
“Oh, I exaggerated that a bit, intimidation tactics.”
“Minx.”
“Hey, Scrabble is cutthroat.” I smiled. “And I did play tournaments, actually, at a retirement home I worked at a few years ago.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, after high school I needed to get out of town.” I laid my head back on his chest and traced small circles on his skin with my fingers, choosing my
“I love the way your smile reaches your eyes when you’re happy.” I moved my other hand to caress his cheek. “And, God, those eyes. They are the most haunting shade of blue I’ve ever seen.”
His eyes darkened and his expression grew solemn, arousal shadowing his gaze.
“You see into a girl’s soul with those eyes. Don’t you?”
He didn’t answer and I moved on, aware that I was getting a little serious when I’d intended to lighten the mood. I cleared my throat, and he released my finger. My hands wandered, traveling across his shoulders and down those finely muscled arms. I stopped halfway down, my thumbs caressing the dark bands that circled his muscles.
“I love your tattoos,” I said. “I don’t understand them, but I get the feeling there’s a lot of meaning there. It’s fascinating. They’re like hieroglyphics or a secret code.”
Great job, genius , I yelled at myself. Pretty sure that’s an off limits topic, right? Didn’t he say the tattoos had something to do with all the bad stuff?
“That’s exactly what they are.”
“I’m sorry. You don’t have to tell me.”
“No, it’s okay,” he said softly. “The tattoos mark pivotal moments in my life,” he continued. “Both good and bad. Anything that I feel has left a mark on my soul, I mark my body in kind. As remembrance.”
“Wow.”
“The one at my wrist, the one you noted earlier, it was the first.”
I swallowed and searched for something to say. “It was bad,” I said lamely.
“Very bad,” he whispered. “The kind of bad that divides your life into before and after. The kind that blows you apart into a thousand jagged pieces and you can’t imagine that there will be any way to put yourself together again. So you don’t. You don’t even try, not for a very long time. Instead, you just walk through life a glued together facsimile of a man. All the joy of the world passing through the cracks in your facade like water through a sieve, nothing ever staying, nothing ever filling you up.”
My breath caught in my throat and I felt hot tears prick at the corners of my eyes, threatening to flood my vision.
“I know exactly what you mean,” I whispered, and he crushed me to him.
6
“ I s my nose still red ?” I asked him. We lay in my bed, my head on his chest, his arms around me, stroking my hair.
I’d made a mess of myself crying all over him in the shower, the recognition of our shared trauma surprising me, overwhelming me. He’d just held me, lifted me in his arms and carried me to my room.
“Let me see.”
I raised my head from his chest and set my chin on my hand.
“A bit,” he said, tapping me lightly on the nose.
“Great.” I rolled my eyes. “That’s a good look.”
“Nonsense, you look adorable. Like the consumptive heroine of a Pre-Raphaelite painting.”
I arched an eyebrow at him. “Seriously?”
“What? That’s a compliment. I love classical babes.”
“So I assume you had Rossetti posters on your teenage walls and not Farrah Fawcett?”
“Farrah Fawcett? How old do you think I am?”
“I don’t know!” I shrieked as he tickled me, slapping his hands away from my ribs. “From how you talk about Shakespeare I just figured you guys were friends.”
“Oh my God. I’m only thirty-two.”
Duly noted , I thought. Filing the information away for the next time my mother decided to interrogate me.
“How is it that you’re a Scrabble champion?” he asked me as we lay in my bed. “I’ve been thinking about it for days.”
“Oh, I exaggerated that a bit, intimidation tactics.”
“Minx.”
“Hey, Scrabble is cutthroat.” I smiled. “And I did play tournaments, actually, at a retirement home I worked at a few years ago.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, after high school I needed to get out of town.” I laid my head back on his chest and traced small circles on his skin with my fingers, choosing my
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