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Great idea. I get up and roll my aching shoulders, careful to not let anything touch my fresh tattoo. Then I catch Brooke in the mirror and my lips tug into a smirk.

Miss Ice Queen is full-on staring at my ass.

"Brooke?" Evan nudges her with his elbow, not able to contain a chuckle. “Staring is rude.”

"What? It's all..." She motions towards me, not even a little apologetic. "Out there. What else am I supposed to look at?"

"You can stare at my ass." I strike a few poses to give her a better view. Flexing stings, though. "You have my full permission."

She turns an adorable shade of pink, but the little wrinkle between her eyebrows remains. "You're kind of a menace, you know that?"

"It’s my middle name, did Evan never tell you?" I trudge towards the mirror and let my gaze trace over the tattoo. So far, the entire backside of my thigh is adorned with smoke streaks. Only my calf is left to go.

Knowing Evan, he'll knock it out in a few hours. But first, a treat!

"Anyway, I promised this one an ice cream." Evan puts his hands on my shoulders and turns me away from the mirror. "Do you want one too?"

"You know, I'd love to stick around." The sarcasm dripping from her voice tells me it's quite the opposite. "But, you know, Daisy, the bunny that recently got surrendered to us? She's clingy. If I don't go back, she'll probably gnaw her way out of her cage and wreak havoc in my office."

"Do you need any big, strong men to wrestle the bunny for you?" I offer, only half joking. Bunnies can be scary. When Ella was in kindergarten, she had a friend who owned a white bunny with red eyes, and it might have given me nightmares for a week after Mom took me along to pick her up at said friend’s house.

Brooke fixes me with a glare. "No, it's okay. You boys get back to-” she makes a vague gesture at my leg. “-coloring or whatever it is you’re doing. Bye."

Before either of us can answer, the door already falls shut behind her. Evan shoots me a dry look.

"What is it between you two?"

"I don't know," I say with a shrug and search the room for my pants. "Before I met her, I considered myself pretty likable. So, you tell me. What the hell did you tell her about me?"

“Nothing incriminating,” he assures me quickly and lifts his hands defensively. “At least I don’t think so?”

I narrow my eyes at him. Hard to believe, considering how angelic I behaved when I lived with the rest of his family for those few days. It was damn sure not his mother talking shit about me.

“Maybe she just hasn't warmed up to you yet." Evan points at the chair, with my pants draped over its back. "Wait. Don't put them on yet." He rustles in his trolley, then smears something over the tattoo, and tries to cover my thigh in cling wrap, but it won’t hold for more than one step.

"Okay, either you walk across the street to the ice cream salon in your undies-” I shrug, but he stops me with his arm across my chest. “But I’d rather you wait here. Yes, I know you don’t have an issue showing off that ass of yours, but let’s not traumatize my town today, or ruin your tattoo, alright? I’ll pop over and get you some ice cream. What do you want?"

"One scoop of strawberry and one of vanilla. And if they have raspberry, I want one too. But if they don't, pistachio is also fine. And I want whipped cream and—"

"Yeah, no, I'm not listening to all that. Strawberry, vanilla, raspberry." He struts towards the door, grabbing his wallet from the counter.

"But—" I shout after him, but he's already out the door. Like the drama queen I am, I lay my flat palm on the cold glass as I watch after him. "But whipped cream..."

Chapter 2

Kieran

“I’m so sorry, Dick. I know I shouldn’t be laughing at you, but you look hilarious.”

I crouch down in the middle of the sidewalk. Oh, fuck. The fabric of my jeans rubs against the fresh tattoo and sends a jolt of pain through my body. The corners of my vision go dark for a moment, and I reach blindly for the nearest wall.

Thankfully, I don’t black out on the sidewalk. As soon as the pain subsides, I run my hands through Dick’s fur, knowing fully well I’ll go through the same once I get up. He’s adorable, his ears flopping through the air as the wind gives him a full-body blowout.

“Let’s go.” I get back up again, breathing through the pain, take two steps, and promptly stop in my tracks because my dog hasn’t moved an inch.

“Come on, Dickie, let’s go.” Said dog only stares at me with vacant eyes, then bites his leash as if it’s a threat, not something he’s seen and worn every damn day of his life since I got him. “Oh, come on.”

I pull a treat out of the pocket of my jacket. I keep a stash in there for these situations. Because if my dog is one thing, it’s food-motivated. And adorable. Okay, that’s two things.