Page 148 of Her Ex-Husband's Brother

The convention center we’re at today is packed so tightly with bodies that I have to turn sideways to squeeze past a group gathered around one of the demonstration stages.

Tattoo machines buzz from every direction, overlapping until the sound becomes a low electric swarm vibrating through the conference center floor.

Huge banners hang from the rafters, each one covered in snarling tigers, beautiful women, grinning skulls, and gorgeous scaled dragons. Every few feet, someone walks past wearing almost no clothing so an artist can photograph a finished piece.

I’ve been here since the doors opened, and I still haven’t stopped staring.

I’ve never seen so much skin turned into art in a single day.

August’s booth is near the center of the main hall, directly beneath a bank of bright lights. His black banner hangs behind him, displaying his name above a pair of skeletal hands cuppinga human heart. Owen helped him choose that image, mostly because, according to Owen, skeletons are “boss.”

August’s table is covered with prints of his work, business cards, stickers, and a convention booking sheet that filled up right after breakfast yesterday. There’s a line curling away from the booth now, people waiting to ask about consultations or get one of the flash pieces he designed specifically for the convention.

A year ago, he would have looked at a crowd like this and decided every person in it was about to discover he was a fraud.

Today, he’s bent over a woman’s upper arm, adding pale highlights to the edges of a black chrysanthemum. His shoulders are relaxed beneath his T-shirt. His breathing is even. Every so often, he sits back to examine the work, then leans in again with that quiet certainty I love watching settle over him.

It was turtle-mode this morning. He hates having turtle-mode on convention days.

It means he knows he has to be deliberate and conserve his energy because this weekend was already going to demand more of him than an ordinary workday. So he slept late while I got everything set up at the booth. He skipped the after-party last night. He ate the sandwich I put in front of him without insisting he wasn’t hungry.

It isn’t a failure when he needs to protect himself. It isn’t selfish. It’s one of the ways he stays stable.

And I’m so freaking proud of him.

He glances up as if he feels me watching.

His eyes find mine through the crowd, and the concentration on his face softens. Just like that, the entire enormous convention center disappears for me.

He can still do that.

He can look at me from across a room and make the world feel private.

I weave around the edge of the booth, careful not to bump the woman sitting in his chair. August lifts his machine from her skin and wipes away the excess ink before turning his face toward me.

“Hey, gorgeous.”

“Hey, famous tattoo artist.”

He snorts softly. “I’m working.”

“I noticed.”

I put one hand against his jaw and kiss him. It’s supposed to be quick because there are people waiting and he’s wearing gloves and the woman in his chair has already been extraordinarily patient waiting for her spot.

August ruins the plan by following when I pull away.

His mouth catches mine again, warmer this time.

Someone in line whistles.

The woman in his chair laughs. “Take your time. This is adorable.”

August smiles against my lips before leaning back. “You need something?”

“Just you.”

His eyes change.