I glance at her.
She’s watching me with a smug little smile. “I’ve been staring at the bottom quarter inch of it where it peeks out from your sleeve for years.”
I huff out a quiet laugh. “You’ve been staring at my arms for years?”
Her entire face goes red.
Like, instantly.
It starts at her cheeks and spreads all the way down her neck, and she turns halfway toward the window like she might be able to escape it.
“I—no—I mean—” She makes a helpless little gesture with her hands. “It’s just… observational awareness!”
“Uh-huh.”
“Don’t make it weird.”
“Too late.”
She groans softly, dropping her head back against the seat.
And then—before I can brace for it—she reaches over.
Her fingers brush my arm as she tugs up the sleeve of my T-shirt, pushing the fabric up just enough to expose the ink on my right biceps.
The contact is light.
Casual.
But it hits me like a live wire.
Her breath catches, just a little, as she takes it in.
The frog.
Black and green, climbing up the curve of my arm.
She leans closer, studying it, and then—slowly—trails her finger along the edge of the design.
Jesus Christ.
Every muscle in my body goes tight.
“And here you were teasing me about my dragons,” she murmurs, her fingertip still moving lightly over my skin, “when you have a frog fetish.”
“It’s not a frog fetish.” My voice comes out rough, so I clear my throat. “Jesus.”
She hums, clearly unconvinced. “Then what would you call it? A passionate love of frogs?” Her lips twitch. “Or maybe it’s all amphibians.”
I exhale sharply through my nose. “It’s a Navy SEAL thing.”
The words hang there for a second.
Her finger stills.
“Wait. What?”
I keep my eyes on the road. “The first iteration of the Navy SEALs were the frogmen in World War II. So a lot of guys in the teams have frog tattoos.”
