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I've done a lot of tattoos the last five years. Thousands. Plenty of them were similar sentiments.
But I've never wanted to pry one apart before.
I've never been hungry for the story behind the words.
I don't dig into this kind of shit.
I don't do late-night conversations or heartfelt promises or teary confessions.
I don't let anyone that close.
Anyone but Bree.
And Bree's the only person who hurts me.
Math has never been my strong suit, but it doesn't take a genius to add that up.
I move to the counter. Order another round of coffees. The guy at the register gives me a look. Really, more already?
I hand him a ten and stuff the change in the tip jar. He's an asshole yeah, but I know working shit jobs. I moved out of my parents' house the second I could and I refused to take a dime. Pride or self-reliance, I don't know. Or care.
It was what I wanted.
So I did it.
I waited a lot of fucking tables while I was apprenticing.
I never skimp on the tip.
Or associate with anyone who does.
Iris is looking at her cell. Whatever she's staring at must be important. Her brow is furrowing. Her blue eyes are focused.
I meant what I said.
I'm not going to hog her afternoon.
Dean is right. I like her. But I don't want her carving out space for me.
I want easy.
Casual.
There. I grab our coffees, move back to the table, hand hers over, take my seat.
"You like making me wait." She slides her cell into her backpack.
I let my voice drop. "Yeah. I do."
She takes her straw between her lips. Looks me in the eyes as she sucks coffee into her mouth. "I'll get you back for that."
"Good."
She moans as she takes another sip.
Fuck, I want that moan again.
She drops her cup on the table. Looks me in the eyes. Raises her brows. "Something you want to say?"
