Page 64 of Waiting for You

"I have it memorized," she answered. "I don't need a reference."

I lowered my head to look at her. She refused to look up. Her dark eyes stayed fixed on my chest, her brows pinched, her mouth pulled into a tight line of concentration. Neither of us had moved on. I knew it in my bones, and she knew it too, but because there were two innocent casualties in this mess, we were going to force ourselves to act like responsible adults. We were going to pretend we were bigger than the trauma we were feeling.

I was lying half-naked in a chair in a Hawaiian estate room with her bare hand resting over my racing heart, and I didn't feel big at all.

She wiped the excess ink away. I stood and walked to the vanity mirror to inspect the fresh black ring over my heart. The lines were clean and precise.

"This is phenomenal work," I admitted.

She looked up at my reflection. "What do you mean by that?"

"I just mean it's good art. I never thought you'd⁠—"

She walked over and smacked my bare bicep. "I'm a professional tattoo artist, Xavier."

"I'm aware of your job title," I laughed. "I just didn't realize you were this talented at the execution."

"How do you think I built a thriving studio?"

"I assumed you coasted on your irresistible charm," I teased.

She let out a bright laugh, her tense shoulders dropping, and I forced myself to look away before I did something stupid.

"Why tattoo art, anyway?" I asked, leaning against the vanity.

"Because I project a dangerous bad-girl energy," she deadpanned.

"Be honest with me."

She considered me for a moment, dropping the armor. "I studied graphic design in college," she said. "I was good at the corporate work. But I wanted to build something that was mine. Something disconnected from the expectations placed on me, or whatever corporate vision my father had dictated for my life. Tattoo art felt like a rebellion. So I learned to sling ink." She paused, a shadow crossing her eyes. "It was one of the first independent steps I took to cut my father out of my life."

I laughed, triumphant.

"Good for you," I said.

"Yeah?"

"Hell yeah," I confirmed. "I'm proud you finally did it. That tyrant controlled too much of your life already."

She started sanitizing and packing up her kit.

"What was the final straw?" I asked. "With your father. What finally gave you the courage to stop bending the knee?"

"I can't pinpoint the exact day I decided," she answered, keeping her eyes on her equipment. "But I made the choice. That's all that matters."

"That's more than enough," I agreed.

The hallway outside erupted with loud, echoing voices, Violet's unmistakable exhausted pitch leading the charge, followed by Simon's deep rumble.

I grabbed my shirt off the bed, pulled it on, and fastened the buttons.

We both stepped out into the bright corridor. The whole hiking group had returned. Violet's face was flushed red from the elevation, Simon trailing protectively behind her, Eliza and Andrew walking in together at the back of the pack.

I turned to Sloane. "I'm going to go check on Eliza," I murmured.

She gave a single, tight nod.

I turned and walked away. I intercepted Eliza near the back of the group, walking alongside Andrew, her cheeks flushed from the jungle heat. I crossed the hallway and relieved her of her heavy day bag.