Page 72 of Hate To Be Mine

“It’s kind of expensive for a basic box.” She laughed. “It’s a basic box from my tropical island getaway.”

She bought it along with a locally made scarf and some coffee beans. Watching her shop was oddly endearing—the way she carefully considered each item, checked prices, made sure everything was authentic and well made.

I knew she wasn’t broke. She wasn’t as wealthy as I was, but she wasn’t scraping the bottom of the barrel. But it made sense. My Little Bee was careful in all things, including shopping.

As we left the shop, we passed a small roadside stand where tourists were getting temporary henna-style tattoos. The designs were beautiful, intricate patterns that looked like lace on skin.

“Come on,” I said, grabbing her hand and pulling her toward the stand. “Live dangerously.”

“No,” she said immediately. “Absolutely not.”

“It’s temporary. It’ll fade in a week. Where’s your sense of adventure?”

“I left it back at the bungalow with my common sense.” But she was smiling. “If you like them so much, you get one.”

I didn’t have tattoos. Never had, never wanted them. My body was my tool, my moneymaker, and putting permanent ink on it felt wrong. Like slapping graffiti over a work of art, as I’d told more than one woman who suggested it.

But henna was temporary. And Bernadette was looking at me with those challenging eyes, like she didn’t think I’d do it.

“Sure,” I said, sitting down at the stand. “Why not?”

The artist asked what I wanted. I looked at Bernadette and made a decision.

“A seashell,” I said. “Small. On my wrist. A seashell for my Venus.”

The woman looked at Bernadette. “And a beautiful Venus she is.”

Bernadette’s cheeks flushed red.

The artist got right to work. The shell was tiny, delicate, placed on the inside of my wrist where I’d see it every day for the next week. A reminder of this moment. Of her.

“There,” the artist said, finishing. “Very beautiful. For a very beautiful couple.”

“Oh, we’re not—” Bernadette started.

“Thank you,” I interrupted before standing. “It’s perfect.”

Bernadette looked mortified, but I secretly loved it. Loved that someone looked at us and saw a couple. I hoped it was the first of many couple activities.

I was going to need to talk to her about that, but for now I was happy to let her think it was professional. And we were nothing more than friends.

“For you?” the woman asked Bernadette.

Bernadette shook her head. “You’re very talented, but no thank you.”

The woman shrugged. I paid her, making sure I tipped her very well, and we walked away.

“That was sweet,” Bernadette said quietly. “The shell. For the Venus shoot.”

“It felt right.”

“I guess tattoos are probably not allowed in the modeling world, huh?”

“Plenty of models have them, but it can cost you jobs. Nowadays, they can photoshop the tattoos out, but that’s just extra editing and extra money. So, usually, models avoid the tats.”

“You could get one on your ass though, right? Unless there are pictures of you out there I’m unaware of.”

I laughed. “There are no butt shots. My derriere is not for public consumption.”