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A hysterical giggle bursts from my throat. “Is kislik a Russian word, or a portmanteau of kiss and lick?” Because those are the things I want to do to Mr. Big, even now, despite this headache-torture and the rest of it.
Art licks his finger and tries to rub off the tattoo. It doesn’t budge. Blinking, he looks up at me. “Kislik is not a very common word, but it can be used to describe someone who makes things sour—say, a yogurt maker.” His eyes take on a darker chocolate hue. “It’s something I was jokingly calling you in my head.”
I should’ve guessed it. That cartoon looks suspiciously like me, is holding sweets, and is a lemon.
“Well then.” I roll my eyes. “The joke is on you. Literally.”
He grimaces and rubs his hands together, trying to clear off the white stuff encrusted on them. Suddenly, he stops and stares at one of his fingers.
A ring finger, to be exact.
I follow his gaze, and at first, I don’t get it. Then he licks the finger clean, and I see it.
A wedding band.
I check my own digit.
Yep.
On my left hand, on my ring finger, is a gold band that matches his.
