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Back when she was determined to be a writer – when we often talked about producing a graphic novel together – she might’ve done something like that.
Felix has answered my question, but the music and my thoughts make it difficult to focus.
Hemakes it difficult to focus onhim.
How can that be possible?
“So you run a studio?” I say, trying to keep the conversation going.
He winces as though my question is somehow offensive or off-putting to him.
After a short nod, he says, “How long have you wanted to be a tattooist?”
He asks the question with genuine interest, looking at me in that nothing-else-matters way again. I’m sure there’s a chance I’m imagining this. Felix isn’t really fantasizing about me the same way I am of him.
But I can’t shake the feeling, the hope.
“Since I was a little kid,” I murmur. “My mom has quite a few tattoos…not where people can see them, but they’re there. And each one means something. When I was a kid, she’d take me with her sometimes. I fell in love with those notebooks in the lobby, with all the designs. I started copying the designs and then….”
“What?” he asks when I trail off.
I shake my head, though I’m not telling himno. I’m not exactly sure what I’m trying to tell him, except that when he stares at me, I want to share every little piece of my soul.
“You don’t need mywholelife story,” I say, laughing a little.
“You started copying designs,” he prompts with a smirk. “And then…?”
My fingers twitch as though telling me to touch him, reach out and squeeze those heaving arms, and drag my fingernails down his muscled skin. Not just for the sheer steamy feeling of it,him, but for the security.
With Felix, I don’t have to worry.
We’re in it together, everything, whatever it is.
Okay, this is getting absurd. Ireallyneed to slow down.
“And then I began making my own,” I go on. “I need experience with the tat gun, but I think I’m a decent artist. Plus, I’ve been practicing on fake skin.”
“Fake skin?” He smirks. “That sounds macabre.
“It’s just material that feels like skin. Nothing…spooky.”
I cringe inwardly, wondering if I sound as dorky to him as I do to myself.
“Fake or real, I’m sure you’re more than decent, Freya.”
“Oh, really?” I say. “How’s that?”
“You’ve been doing it since you were a little kid. You’re obsessed, and I can hear the passion in your voice, Freya. I canseeyour passion. It’s difficult to do something for that long, maintaining that level of passion.”
“Maybe I’m just passionately terrible, then.”
He laughs, holding me captive in his gaze. I haven’t taken a sip of my drink, haven’t even wanted to.
I could stand here all night, dreams of networking forgotten, just being with him.
“I find that hard to believe,” he says.
“This almost feels like a job interview.”
