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“Skate park. He was on a study break, and I was…” He seems to start and stop a few times before answering. “Burning off some energy. We hit it off.”
“And now you work together?”
“He’s got the degree that got his foot in the door, and he brought me with him since he liked my designs.”
“What designs?” I ask. Tripp glances down at his chest with a casual shrug, and I point to where his gaze lands on his stomach. “Tattoos? You did those?”
“I drew them. Someone else put them on.”
“Can I see?”
Another shadow drifts across his face before he gives me a curt nod.
Resting his elbows on the truck, he reclines so I can see the art. The rose is far more intricate than I first realized, with the words ‘Fall seven times, get up eight’ written in elegant cursive along the stem.
“What’s this mean?” I start to reach my finger toward the image but stop myself before making contact with his skin.
“It’s a Japanese proverb.” The firm set of his jaw suggests he’s not going to say anything more about it, so I don’t ask.
“And this?” I point to the text under the mountain range. ‘Over every mountain is a pass, although it may not be seen from the valley.’
“Quote from Theodore Roethke.” When my brows draw together, he elaborates. “A poet.”
“What does it mean?”
“I think it’s supposed to be a metaphor for overcoming obstacles, but to me it means there’s a reason for everything, even if I might not understand what that is.”
Once again, his answer surprises me, and while I’m sure there’s a lot to unpack there, it’s not the time or place. Especially, since what he just shared makes my stomach flutter more, not less. It proves that it's not just the sex talk that makes me feel things. Instead, I focus on the art.
“The detail is impressive.” Once again, I almost bring my finger to his skin—something about the intricate lines makes me want to trace them—but I pull back at the last moment, right as his muscles tense in anticipation.
“Don’t be afraid to touch.” Playful Tripp is back, I assume to distract me from asking any more personal questions, and since I have a feeling he shared more about those tattoos than he intended to, I don’t object. I also don’t respond. I’m too distracted by the long lashes that line his hazel eyes, the full lips that frame his mischievous grin. He really is beautiful. Not for a man either, just in general.
“You’re staring,” he accuses after a minute of silence.
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. Tell me why.”
Even though his heated gaze makes me feel like he can see right through the clothes I’m wearing, I’m not uncomfortable. Only confused. “I’m not sure, it’s just sort of hard not to. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone so pretty before. Man or woman.”
Tripp bolts upright with a comically offended look. “I am not pretty. Hot as sin, sure, but not pretty.”
“Why can’t you be both?”
“Pretty is a safe word. Ooh, such a pretty girl. What a pretty flower. Bleh. Before you give a compliment to a man, stick the word dick in there. If it sounds lame it probably is.”
His anger would be amusing if I understood it, but I’m hopelessly lost. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Tripp leans forward, bracing his hands on his knees. “How would you describe your dick?”
“Um…” I wrinkle my brow, not sure how to answer.
“Is it pretty?” He stares at me for a moment and when I still can't formulate an answer, he relaxes back onto the trunk. “See? Pretty doesn’t work. No one wants a pretty dick.”
“How do you describe yours then?”
His eyes flare with mischief as he leans forward again and murmurs, “Spectacular.”
