But a man shouldn’t keep a woman waiting.
I head downstairs in nothing but a towel slung low on my waist. When I spot Chloe through the window, a warm, fizzy feeling spreads in my chest.
I yank the door open.
Her lips part. Her eyes take a long, lingering tour of my body. “Is this Christmas morning?”
I fiddle with the towel knot but don’t take it off. “Here’s your present, sweetheart.”
“Thank you, Santa,” she says, walking inside, her canvas bag from yesterday on her shoulder. She keeps it tucked tight to her, then folds it over when she sets it down on the floor.
She rolls her lips. “Are you sure you have to go to karaoke?”
“I like to be a man of my word,” I say.
She shakes her head, then sighs as she lifts her hand and drags her nails down my chest, over my chest hair, and on a beeline straight for the towel. “Answer the door this way all the time.”
Those words echo—all the time.
They wrap around the ones I said last night about her dog.Every time he’s here.
We’re using words that imply more than once. That say this is ongoing. That indicate we’re a thing.
Hell, she’s coming with me to karaoke tonight. Maybe we are a thing?
My head’s a little scrambled with how much I like those thoughts. More than I want to. More than I should.
But here they are, making themselves at home in my damn heart. I try to blink off the fog of feelings as I drag a hand through my damp hair, focusing on tonight.
I nod toward the kitchen. “We should do the tattoo.”
She heads toward the pristine white counter, where I’ve left the temporary tattoo. “This is gorgeous. I just love it. I love roses.”
And I love watching her joy in the art—the way she studies the red petals, the long green stem, even the thorns on the rose that lays on top of an old-time microphone.
“How did you pick this?” she asks, raising her face.
“I like roses too,” I say, even though the admission makes me feel vulnerable in ways I don’t love. What I love more though? The look in her hazel eyes—passion, and wonder—as I hold her gaze. “So pretty, don’t you think?”
I’m not talking about flowers or ink right now. Pretty sure she knows it too.
“Yes,” she says, a little breathless, and my heart is beating too fast.
I clear my throat. “So, first I like to make sure the area is clean and dry. Since I just showered, we’re good to go. And yes, I shaved my forearm.”
Her eyes dance. “You’re a karaoke pro.”
“I am. The next step is you peel the plastic layer off and place the tattoo face-down on my forearm, then hold a damp washcloth over it for thirty seconds and then gently remove the backing paper. Then I just need to be careful with it for an hour.”
“Got it,” she says, heading to the sink and wetting the cloth, then returning to me.
With her eyes flickering, she peels off the plastic, then runs her thumb over my forearm where she’ll put it, making my skin heat up. She lays it down, gently covering the area with the art and paper, then grabs the washcloth and presses it down.
While she holds it, she looks up at me, her eyes wide and curious. “Did Katya help you get ready?”
I shake my head. “She knew I did it. But she never helped.”
“Did she ever see you perform?”
