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“What are we doing here?”
“What do you think?” He took my hand and pulled me inside as I stumbled to mentally catch up.
“If it isn’t Mr. Reid,” called out a bald man covered in tattoos at a computer behind the counter. “What’s up, man?”
The two did a manly handshake hug combination.
“Wanted to stop in and introduce my new wife. See if you had a minute for a couple of small ones.”
Wait, a couple? A couple of tattoos?
I was suddenly on high alert.
“Shit, man. Congratulations.” The guy looked at me and grinned. “Name’s Paco.”
I smiled warily in return. “Noemi.”
“It’s a pleasure, Noemi.” He turned back to Conner. “I’ve definitely got time. You going first?”
“Wait. What’s happening here?” I blurted, no longer able to contain my panic.
“Yeah,” Conner answered him, glossing over my obvious distress. “That’ll give her a minute to decide where she wants hers.”
If my eyes went any wider, I risked one popping right out of the socket.
“Excuse me? I can’t just roll up and get a tattoo.”
“Why not?” Conner asked, both men staring at me like I’d grown a third arm.
“Because … Because …”
Well, shit.
Why couldn’t I get a tattoo? Did Iwanta tattoo? That depended on what it was.
“What are you getting?” I asked, growing more dismayed by the second.
“I’m putting your name on the inside of my wrist.” He leaned in, his eyes anchoring me to the spot. “And we aren’t leaving here until my name is somewhere on you. That way, you know this is real. Nothing more real than blood and ink.”
I was speechless. About the tattoo. About everything.
Conner was trying to tell me he was committed to this marriage.
I watched in awe as he sat down and placed his right wrist on the table, surprising me yet again. That was the arm without a drop of ink. My name would be the one and only adornment.
I pulled up a chair next to him and watched as Paco cleaned the area, then used transfer paper to adhere a painted template to his skin. It was fascinating to watch. I’d never seen a tattoo being created, let alone my name etched into someone’s body. I knew in theory it could be removed, but it was still incredibly moving. This was a statement—one I wanted to reciprocate despite an army of nerves battling in my belly.
Once the tattoo was complete, gel was slathered over the elegant script, and his wrist was bandaged.
Then it was my turn.
“I’ll do my wrist as well.” My voice was breathy, my lungs working overtime to keep pace with my racing heart.
“Right wrist?” the man asked.
“No, my left.” I placed my arm on the table.
Conner looked at the wrist, then back at me, understanding in his eyes. It was the wrist my father had mottled with bruises. Now, it would forever bear Conner’s name instead.
