Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 100275 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 501(@200wpm)___ 401(@250wpm)___ 334(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100275 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 501(@200wpm)___ 401(@250wpm)___ 334(@300wpm)
“Why didn’t you answer your phone?”
“I was in the bathroom. Where are you?”
“We stopped by the marina to ensure everything was ready. I’m leaving now. But when I get there, I’ll quickly change into my dress, and we’ll have to go. Are you two ready?”
“Yes, uh . . . totally.” I gather my shirt and bra from the floor and dart into the bedroom.
“Cool. I’ll be there in twenty.”
I end the call without a goodbye.
“Wake up! Melissa’s on her way.” I shake Fitz’s leg. “Dammit, Fitz. Wake up!”
He grumbles and rubs his eyes before opening them.
“We. Got. Tattoos.”
Fitz eases to sitting. “Yep.” He winces. “We did. It was your idea.”
“Dude! You had a say. We were not sober enough to get them. What irresponsible idiot gave us tattoos? Alcohol is a blood thinner. Guess what you shouldn’t do before getting a tattoo?” My voice escalates with each word.
He chuckles, standing and arching his back in a long stretch. “Drink alcohol?”
“This won’t end well. If we found someone that irresponsible, I can only imagine how irresponsible he probably is with keeping things sanitary and sterile.” My stomach twists as I consider all the dangerous possibilities.
“We weren’t that drunk. We were just enjoying life.” He tips his chin and lifts his arm to inspect his tattoo.
“We have to be ready by the time Melissa gets here. Get dressed.”
I’m never drinking a drop of alcohol again. When Fitz closes the bathroom door, I make the bed, throw on my dress, and apply makeup in the full-length mirror while my curling iron heats up.
Even though I can’t see the back of my neck, I know what it says—more proof that I wasn’t drunk enough to forget.
Mine says “He’s mine,” and his says “She’s mine.”
“One word, Fitz. You couldn’t pitch in a little money for that extra word?” I ask when he stands in the doorway wearing the hell out of a black suit and crisp white shirt with a silver-and-blue geometric tie. I almost forget that I’m hell bent on blaming him for today’s events.
“Pitch in?” He grunts a laugh. “I bet you make more money than I do. So the question is, why were you so cheap with something so permanent?”
“I was testing your level of generosity.”
His lips twist, and he nods several times while inspecting my gold ruched dress with a cowl-neck and generous split up my thigh. “Let me guess. I failed?”
“Times infinity.” I scowl at his reflection, even though it’s hard because that suit does things to me. Things that get me into trouble.
“What’s the big deal anyway?”
I twist the curling iron. “He’s my person implies friendship. He’s mine implies ownership. Something that’s forever.”
“It is what it is.”
I unplug the curling iron and turn toward him, inhaling a massive breath and holding it for a few seconds. “It is what it is? How do we explain it?”
“Who’s going to know?”
“What? Melissa will know. And Will and Maren will know. Basically, the three people we don’t want to know will know.”
“It’s on the back of your neck, covered by your hair. And mine’s on my torso, covered by my arm. Besides, you can always get ‘he’ changed to something else.”
I think of words that end in h-e. I’ve got nothing. “What words end in h-e?” I brush past him to slip on my heels in the kitchen.
Fitz follows me while staring at his phone. “Well, there’s avalanche, heartache, toothache, unsheathe, mustache, guilloche—”
“Mustache? Mustache’s mine? That’s ridiculous. And what the hell is guilloche?”
“It’s, uh . . .” He squints at his phone’s screen. “A decoration formed by two intersecting lines.”
“I’m an idiot. No.” I shake my head a half-dozen times. “You make me into an idiot.”
His head juts back. “Whoa. Whoa. Whoa. If I make you into an idiot, then what do we say about the woman who suggested we get tattoos from a sketchy tattoo artist in the first place? You are the bad influence. And it’s me who does idiotic things under your bad influence.”
I wave him off. “Nonsense. I’ll look into guilloche. And what will you change ‘she’ to?”
He chuckles. “I’m afraid my choices are fewer than yours. I’ll probably go with galoshes.”
“Galoshe’s mine?” I grumble. “But seriously, you’re older. Why did you let us get tattoos?”
Fitz slides his hands into his pants pockets. “Because you thought we should go day drinking, which made me more agreeable than usual. Need I remind you of the alternative plan?”
I zip my purse and look at him. “Day drinking didn’t exactly stop that from happening.”
A slow grin steals his lips. “You remember that, huh?”
I avert my gaze while setting my purse on the counter and filling a glass with water. “I woke up without my shirt and bra. Something happened. And yes, I remember!”
When he doesn’t respond, I take a sip of water and turn toward him. Fitz grins. God! It’s a huge grin. It breaks through my not-so-innocent facade. I have a waning desire to act unaffected by Calvin Fitzgerald. I know where he stands, even if I don’t know why. And I accept it. Unfortunately, it doesn’t change my growing feelings for him.