“I didn’t. But it’s an educated guess.” I cock my head. “Let me guess. It was an impulsive decision. You were out with a few friends.”
“I don’t like your tone,” she says.
“You don’t need to.” I pour her another glass. It’s not hard to imagine her, spontaneous and smiling, in a tattoo parlor at two a.m. “What is it?”
She takes the glass I hand her, but she doesn’t respond. She just looks at me with a frustrated expression.
“You don’t want to tell me. It’s that bad, is it?” I lean back again and stretch out my legs. This is fun. “Live, laugh, love on your low back.”
“No.”
“Carpe diem in comic sans.”
“I hate you.”
“I’m well aware. But if I were really your husband, I’d know what your tattoo is.” My eyes drop down, and I linger on the bare length of her arms. She’s gotten tan in the few days we’ve been here.
It has to be somewhere hidden.
“If I were really your wife, you’d know better than to push this topic.”
“You were the one who askedmeabout tattoos. Don’t tell me you can’t handle it back?”
“It’s on my ribs, but it’s not any of yourexcellentsuggestions.” She sets down the glass and lifts up the edge of her shirt. I see a taut stomach and the edge of a black bra. My hand tightens around my glass.
There’s a small pattern of waves across her ribs. “It was an impulsive thing,” she admits.
“Shocking.” I look away from her skin, from her bra. The wine doesn’t burn as much as whiskey does, and I crave that feeling instead. Something to dull the ache within.
“I could suggest some tattoos for you,” she says. “How aboutassholetattooed across your forehead?”
“Too on the nose,” I say. “I’m charming at first glance. People have to get to know me to see the darkness within.”
“Funny. I saw it right away,” she says. She lifts the glass to her lips, and I hate that we’re good at this. That conversation flows easily with her. It’s fun, and it shouldn’t be.
“Did you? I’m flattered,” I say.
“We’ve barely gone through any of my questions,” she says. She leans back against the chair and looks at me with slightly wine-drunk eyes. “I wanted to know if you sleep in a coffin at night.”
“You saw my bed when you snuck into my bedroom. Highly suspicious of you, by the way.”
“It could be a decoy. You could be hiding the coffin somewhere else,” she says. Her legs are softly curved, long and shapely. “We’ll have to kiss, you know. Eventually. For the guests or the pictures, if we’re going to sell this love illusion.”
The air seems to tighten around us.
“I’m aware,” I say. “It’s one of the greatest sacrifices I’ll ever have to make.”
Pressing my lips to hers is a terrible fucking idea. I think about her finger in my mouth earlier. Her parted lips and her moan.
“It’s the one thing that makes me regret this whole deal,” she says with barely concealed distaste. “Do you have a forked tongue?”
“Do you have fangs?” I ask.
“No, but I can still bite.” She tilts her head to the side. “I’ll refrain if we have an… audience.”
“I’m such a lucky man,” I drawl, and take another long sip of my wine. “You sound curious.”
“I’m not. I already know kissing you is going to be terrible. What if I catch something?”
