“Don’t.”
“Too late.”
I sighed, shoving my chair back. “Fine. I’ll get another pancake. A normal, wholesome pancake. Without emotional baggage.”
“Good luck with that,” she said, smirking. “You’re ordering from the source.”
I ignored her and made my way up to the counter, where Drew was plating another batch. He glanced up the second I approached, that familiar half-smile sliding into place.
“Back already?” he asked.
“I didn’t get a full one earlier. Somone ripped the heart out of the chest,” I said, trying for breezy. “Call this a breakfast do-over.”
He handed the plate to an old man waiting at the bar, then leaned his weight on one arm, close enough that the heat radiating off him could melt snow. “You sure it’s not an excuse to come flirt with me again?”
“Again?” I repeated, tilting my head. “You think this is flirting?”
He grinned. “If it’s not, I’ve been reading all the wrong signals for decades.”
I tried for a scathing retort, but my brain short-circuited the moment his sleeve pulled higher on his arm. There it was. It was the tattoo I’d caught a glimpse of last night. I could see it clearly now, ink dark against his skin: a single line of small and deliberate script.
A letter and numbers inside a compass.
My eyes lingered.
Longer than they should’ve.
He noticed. Of course he noticed.
“What’s that one?” I asked, forcing my tone to stay casual even as my voice came out a little too soft. “The new one.”
He followed my gaze, then looked back up, slow and knowing. “You tell me.”
I blinked. “I’m asking.”
“And I’m asking why it matters.”
“I’m curious.”
His grin turned teasing. “That curiosity didn’t exist the last few months.”
“Maybe I’ve evolved.”
He leaned closer. “Into what?”
I swallowed. “Someone with an interest in tattoos.”
The corner of his mouth quirked.
“What does it mean?” I asked again.
He looked down at the ink, brushing a thumb absently over the edge of the design. “It’s a special number.”
“What number?”
“Wouldn’t mean anything to you.”
My heart stumbled. “How do you know?”
