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Also taking a casual sip of his hot chocolate.
Like we’re talking about the weather — and not the raging weather we’re having right now but something balmy and pleasant — and not him murdering me.
I wrap both my hands around my hot chocolate and hold it tightly, both embarrassed and trying not to be too obvious that I just checked out his lips kissing the rim of the mug.
Then, “I didn’t… That wasn’t what I meant. It was stupid. Forget I said anything. I —”
He turns toward me fully, stopping me mid-speech.
With his back against the arm of the couch, he brings his leg up, folding it at the knee and resting it on the seat. He even throws his arm along the backrest and sets his hot chocolate down on his other thigh, seemingly settling in for the long haul.
Then, staring into my eyes, he goes, “So what did you mean?”
I’m frozen on my seat though.
All tight and immobile.
While my eyes take in the expanse of his chest. That seems to have grown larger. His entireframehas grown larger because of how sprawled out he is. With his limbs draped on the couch both gracefully and casually at the same time.
It could also be because he’s not wearing his jacket anymore.
And I can see exactly how well his shirt clings to his muscular form. Even more so now than before because it’s still damp in places from the snowfall.
But the main reason why I’m all frozen and unable to speak is because I’m in the direct line of vision of his tattoo.
Or at least a peek of his tattoo.
Oh yeah, have I mentioned he’s got a tattoo?
It’s a big one too.
A series of birds, eagles to be precise, soaring on his skin. Running along the length of his left bicep, spanning his shoulder, his collarbone, going up to the side of his neck.
It’s all done in black ink.
And with the top two buttons undone, I can see a wingtip on his collarbone, and a beak around the vein of his neck, making me wonder for the thousandth time since I saw it on TV — during one of those replays of his legendary goal from last season — what exactly it means.
“What does your tattoo mean?” I ask instead.
God, that was so out of the blue.
And so rude too.
If the meaning of that tattoo is personal. Also I’m not sure if you can ask your boss that? Well, if you have a good relationship with them, then I’m sure you can. But my relationship with my boss is practically non-existent, or it has been for the past six months and oh my gosh, what was I thinking?
“Freedom.”
I snap my gaze up. “What?”
And I can tell that he hasn’t looked away from me at all. “Eagles. They’re a symbol of freedom. So my tattoo means freedom.”
My heart’s beating on my tongue and I guess that’s why my words come out wobbly. “Freedom from what?”
“From how I grew up.”
“But you grew up in Bardstown,” I say, thinking back to when one of my brothers told me his entire history.
“And from what you can see, Bardstown isn’t very welcoming.”
