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“Who taught you?”
“Lots of people.”
That’s it. That’s all he’s giving me.
I think about asking him what’s been bugging me since the art class. It’s on the tip of my tongue before I swallow the words.
“Say it,” he prompts.
“Say what?”
“Whatever you want to. Stop biting your tongue.”
I give in with a sigh. “I heard at the art class you were there because you lost a bet. I was wondering what the bet was.”
Something dark glitters in his eyes, the knowing curl of his lips making my cheeks heat.
Oh.
Oh.
It was that type of bet. “You and Cassie, huh?”
He shakes his head.
I’m not sure if his intention is to evade my questions and confuse me but I’m thoroughly confused. “Have you ever?”
I don’t know why I’m so insistent in knowing his relationship with the art teacher. It’s none of my business.
What the hell is wrong with me today?
I should want him to leave. My high is dwindling, and I’m exhausted, but I’m genuinely curious.
“A long time ago. She’s an old college friend.”
“Did you go to college to become a tattoo artist?”
Shut up, Beth.
Shut. Up.
“Business.”
That makes sense, I guess, considering he owns one.
I pick at the now cold bacon on my plate just to keep my hands moving and my eyes from focusing on anything but how the muscles in his bicep strain when he grabs the back of his neck.
My stomach lurches. I’m finally full.
“You look like you should ride a motorcycle.” My filter is broken today, it’s the only explanation.
“I do.”
Of course he does.
I chew my lip between my teeth.
As he folds his arms over his chest and sits back, his knee brushes mine under the table as he shifts. It’s the briefest touch. It shouldn’t make my skin burn or cause our eyes to lock from the heat of it, but it does.
