“So I guess I owe you another apology. Will there ever be a day I won’t have something to apologize to you about?”
“Reese...” He flings the towel over his shoulder and wraps his arms around me, pulling my back against his chest. “Don’t ever worry about it. I’m just glad nothing bad happened to you. Your safety is worth a little collateral vomit damage.”
“Gross but sweet at the same time.”
He kisses the back of my head and chuckles. “It’s a Hallmark card in the making.”
“Well, on that romantic note, I’m getting up.”
“Aww . . .”
“I need to go to the bathroom, and it’s impossible to get out of this bunk without crawling over you. I didn’t want to wake you.”
“Crawl away.” He gestures to the ladder.
“Not like this is weird or anything,” I joke as I climb over him and down the ladder.
Today seems different—lighter, in a way. I hum as I get ready, almost in a foggy daydream as I throw on my Cliffys t-shirt. Not only am I hoping to get a rise out of him, but I’ve run out of clean clothes.
His gaze catches on me as I walk out of the bedroom.Mission accomplished.
With a cocky smirk, he leans against the counter and blocks my path. “Fine. I admit defeat. The shirt looks better on you. But you look amazing in everything you wear. I can’t tell if I like this or the towel better.”
I grin, shaking my head. “You weren’t supposed to be looking.”
“How could I not? Oh, that reminds me. Did I see a tattoo on your shoulder? When did you get that?”
“Oh.” I slap a hand over it and frown. “It’s just another bad memory.”
“Another fun surprise you woke up to one morning?”
“Um, it’s something Burns picked out.”
His smile slips, and he pushes off the counter to loom over me. “Can I see it?”
“It’s just a dumb microphone.”
“Nothing about you is dumb.”
I take a breath and turn around, allowing him to adjust my neckline to see. An uncomfortable heat crawls up my neck. I know it’s silly to be so worked up about a tattoo, but I can’t stop myself. Tristen lingers for a moment, staring at the small microphone with the cord twisted in a heart shape. Luckily it’s small, no bigger than a quarter, so it’s easy to keep hidden, even under the wide straps of a tank top.
“He picked it?”
“Yeah. So I’ll always remember him,” I mumble, my eyes downcast.
He huffs in irritation. And for a moment, he’s so quiet I assume he walked away before I hear him ask, “Can I touch it?”
My breath catches, and I peer over my shoulder. “If you want to.”
With two fingers, he presses into my skin. His gentle caress summons a burst of goosebumps over my shoulders and down my arms. “You know, a lot of careers use a microphone. Not just low-life wannabe musicians.”
“Yeah?”
“Comedians, announcers, news reporters.” He hesitates before adding the last one. “Narrators—audiobook ones, especially.”
I can’t move. I can’t speak. I can’t breathe.
“It could be anyone’s microphone, really,” he whispers, leaning closer to the spot so that his heated breath fans over my skin and sends another wave of goosebumps over me.
