“That one I planned. I got it after my first shift in a Michelin-starred restaurant. It’s me.” He says it with such confidence, I know he’s serious. He thinks of himself as a panther, stalking alone through the forest, knife in his maw. I can’t imagine anything lonelier. Florida panthers are endangered, after all. “Why is it your favorite?”
“I don’t know.” I pet the panther. It’s one of the most detailed pieces he has. “I guess part of me realized it was one of the meaningful ones.”
Now that I think of it, all the most detailed tattoos are of animals. I can’t even imagine how long it took to ink the octopus splashed across his chest and collarbone.
I spot an inked patch on his hip. A wishbone. When I trace it, first with my finger, then my tongue, he jumps.
“I’ve been dying to know if you had any secret ink.” I look at him from underneath my lashes, a grin playing over my lips. All the while, this one was hiding underneath his clothes. “Is this it? No ass tattoo, right?”
He snorts. “What would I get tattooed on my ass?”
“I’m sure I could think—”
“Hello?” a voice I don’t recognize shouts. “Jack, are you here?”
We freeze at the same moment. Jack groans, pressing his forehead against mine before rolling away.
“Hazel,” he calls back, “wait right there.”
Chapter 33
Flounder
Jack
“You have sex hair,” Poppy hisses as we struggle back into our clothes. “She’s going to know what we were doing.”
“I’ve caught her having a threesome in a storage closet.” I yank my jeans on, nearly losing my balance against the walk-in. “Believe me, she won’t care.”
“Will you care?”
I pause, glancing over at Poppy. “No. What about you?”
“No.” She blows a lock of hair away from her face. It just falls back into place.
“Good.” I tuck the hair behind her ear with a smirk. “Forget about me. You’re the one with sex hair.”
“Jack!” she exclaims as she follows me into the dining room. She takes out her hair tie, unraveling her braid and frantically combing through the blonde curtain with her fingers.
Hazel is standing by the front door, suitcase beside her, knife roll tucked underneath her arm. Her curly hair is pulled into a bun, with shades perched atop her head precariously. She grins as we come closer. “Nice place you’ve got here, Hartman.”
“Thanks, but it’s all her.” I gesture to Poppy, who waves, blush gracing her cheeks. I should win a fucking award for how cool and collected I sound right now, considering that fifteen minutes ago,I was spanking Poppy with a wooden spoon. In my kitchen. “She designed the whole thing.”
“That so?” Hazel turns to Poppy, eyebrows raised. “You have an eye for color.”
“Hazel is an artist,” I explain.
Poppy’s nerves seem to melt away. “Oh, really? What kind of art?”
“Painting, mostly.”
“That’s so cool. I was never good at art class.”
“She’s also one of the best I’ve ever worked with,” I add. “You should taste her risotto.”
Hazel rolls her eyes at the compliment but doesn’t refute it. She knows how talented she is. “So,” she says, looking between me and Poppy, “I guess I interrupted something?”
“Menu planning,” Poppy says at the same time I say, “Homemade pop tarts.”
