My heart rate picks up, not only because I have to think about my ex, who I realize, looking back, was pretty awful to me. I stare up at the ceiling. “We met on Hinge. She was a hairstylist, we dated for eight months. Not that long, I guess.”
Morgan doesn’t say anything until I look over at him. If he has any reaction to me having dated a woman, I can’t tell.
“Eight months tops any relationship I’ve ever had.” He grins at me.
I roll my eyes. “I’m not even a Herevian and I know that.”
He shrugs. “I’m a bartender. In the ski season I meet a lot of women who are just passing through. And the locals—well, I’ve known everyone my whole life. And none of the women here have been The One. Why did you break up?”
I turn on my side to face him. Morgan lowers his head to the pillow and we both curl in. “I realized she was mean.” Morgan’s smile drops. “I know it’s ironic, because I’m mean. Maybe I can dish it out but I can’t take it myself.”
“I don’t think you’re mean,” he says. “Blunt, and you have a dry sense of humor. But I don’t think you’ve ever said anything mean to me.”
Probably because even I can’t kick a puppy. “Tell me about your tattoos.”
He sits up. “You just want to get me shirtless.” Morgan’s words are muffled as he strips off his shirt.
“I said tell me about them, not show me them.” My words lack any real heat to them because when I catch a view of his abs, my stomach does a little flip-flop. Maybe my voice hitches too, because Morgan chuckles.
“It’s a visual topic,” he says. He sits up, turning away from me, and points over his shoulder at the zigzagging line on his back. It’s almost like a lightning bolt, the curves softened, and there’s a series of small black diamonds along the path, which disappears into a minimalist mountain peak. “This is Fatal Attraction, the run at Sirens that we were on when we rescued that skier. Kit, Hunter, Silas, and I all have some homage to the lodge on our bodies.” He turns back to me, showing me the wings that spread over his pecs. “This is also for the lodge.” He raises an arm and points at the snake. “This one I got for my mom.”
My brows draw together. “I thought . . .” I don’t know how to finish that. That they didn’t get along? Or that she wasn’t a big part of his life? Is the tattoo a reminder of good things or bad?
“I got it to remember to watch my back with her. And this quote too.” He points to the grass, where the stalks form the words “O, that way madness lies.”
“Shakespeare?”
“King Lear,” he confirms. “To remind me not to dwell on what I cannot have.”
“A mother?” I guess.
Morgan lies back down facing me. “Maternal love. She’s always favored my brother. Always. He could do no wrong in her eyes. I think it’s because our dad left while she was pregnant with me.” He’s quiet for a moment. “One of my first memories was of being left home alone when I was four. They went to an amusement park without me. One of my teachers called social services once because I wasn’t bathing. That wasn’t the last time.” His voice has taken on a tone, half begging, half defensive, as if he’s not sure I’ll believe him.
“I believe you,” I say.
He sighs and shifts to his back. “Sorry. I don’t talk about it a lot. And I hate that I feel like I have to give you examples . . . like, prove it to you.”
“I get that. I felt the same way with my sexuality, when I was dating men and just starting to realize I was interested in women too. It’s hard to tell the world something without evidence. I overcompensated and talked way too much about my crush on Shakira for a while. How did you get through it? Therapy?”
“Are you saying I’m well-adjusted now?” There’s a hint of a tease back in his voice. “I did some therapy later, but mostly it was my friends that got me through. As I got older I practically lived at either Kit’s or Hunter’s houses.”
“You charmed your way into new families.”
He gives me a sly glance. “Like yours, my queen.”
I ignore that and ask him about another tattoo, since he’s not done explaining them all. He shows me the pine forest half-sleeve on his shoulder, a Legend of Zelda tattoo on his thigh that he got as a bet when he was eighteen.
He does not put his shirt back on.
We keep talking, our voices getting quieter. At some point, Morgan turns the bedside light back off. We whisper.
The last thing I remember is the brush of a finger against my cheek and a whispered “Good night, my queen.”
I wake up and everything is warm. Hot, even. I might be sweating. And I’m definitely not alone.
I open my eyes and blink them into focus. I can just make out the treetops on his shoulder.
The comforter is tucked right up under my chin, and I can see the edge of the bed and the nightstand. I’ve migrated across the bed. I’m not just on Morgan’s side; I’m draped over him. Belly, hips, thighs, all pressed together, my toes—the traitors—are even curled under the muscles of his calf.
