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“Suppose the Raiders beat that out of you.”
Pain pinched his brows, but they soon smoothed out and he shook his head.
“Nah, growing up poor beat that out of me.”
Fair enough.
“I’m afraid I learned my cooking skills from my mom, so I do a majority takeout. Hope that isn’t a deal breaker.”
“Good thing I make the big bucks,” he teased, moving to my back again to cling like a turtle shell.
“Mhmm,” I agreed, mixing up the salad while we boiled the hot dogs.
Not five minutes later, we were at the table eating while Ash teased the shit out of me for putting ketchup on my hotdog.
“Ketchup is a perfectly acceptable topping for a hot dog!” I cried as he smothered his in mustard. “Besides, it’s not like anyone’s mourning the store bought quality of it being ruined.”
“You’d have been laughed off the streets where I grew up,” he said, which just made me roll my eyes.
Then I realized something really important.
I didn't know where he’d grown up.
“Where did you grow up?” I demanded. “How the hell don’t I know that yet?”
He shrugged.
“I don’t talk about it much.”
“Well, talk about it now, because I want to know everything about you.”
That smile drained off his face a little.
“Chicago,” he said sterilely.
What?
“Chicago? Really? You have no accent!”
Finally a smirk tweaked his lips upward.
“Not everyone in Chicago speaks like a black and white movie mobster,” he countered with a laugh.
Picking up his hot dog, he shoved half into his mouth in a single bite. No wonder he's so good at eating me out…
“You going to finish that?” he asked, motioning to my uneaten food.
“How about you give me three seconds to eat,” I complained, lifting a bite of salad to my lips.
We ate in relative silence, but my eyes kept going back to that tattoo. It was gorgeous, but most of all, it meant so much more than skin and ink to me. Him too, obviously. But what exactly did it mean? Hope bloomed in my chest that maybe, just maybe he loved me as much as I loved him. None of the last few hours had been about getting in my pants. Like he'd said, he didn't need to tell me he loved me to get me on my back, thighs spread. No, the desperation in my heart would've done that for him. But this? There was something so honest about it all, because he'd gotten the work done long before I blew my way back into his life. That tattoo was for him, not me.
“Ashton?” I murmured between bites. “Do you really love me?”
I wasn't sure what kind of response I was hoping for, but the grin he gave me disarmed me immediately.
“Let's put it this way.” He leaned back in his seat. “I love you enough to overlook your little ketchup on hotdog habit. That should say everything.”
Laughing, I stared back into his steady eyes, my chest ready to burst with happiness and gratitude.
