The waiter arrives before I can defend myself, and Reece orders wine without looking at the menu. When the waiter leaves, he leans back in his chair, studying me with open amusement.
“What?” I demand.
“Nothing. You’re cute when you’re flustered.”
“I’m not flustered.”
“Your ears are red.”
I resist the urge to touch them. “You’re annoying.”
“You knew this going in.”
“I’m reconsidering my choices.”
“No, you’re not.” He reaches across the table, fingers brushing mine. The touch is light and casual, but it sends electricity straight up my arm. “You’re having a good time.”
I pull my hand back. “Cocky.”
“Accurate.”
The wine arrives, and I take a generous sip while Reece watches with barely concealed smugness. He’s enjoying seeing me off-balance, defensive, and trying desperately to maintain composure.
“So,” he says, swirling his wine. “Tell me something real.”
“Real?”
“About you. Something I can’t find onInstagramor hear from your dad’s press conferences.”
I narrow my eyes. “You’ve been stalking myInstagram?”
“Research. There’s a difference.”
“That’s the definition of stalking.”
“Then I’m a dedicated stalker.” He takes a sip. “Your feed is very… curated. Lots of tattoo work. Zero personal photos. It’s like you’re allergic to showing your face.”
“I’m private.”
“You’re hiding.”
The observation hits closer than I’d admit. I set my glass down carefully. “What do you want to know?”
“Anything. Everything.” He leans forward, elbows on the table. “Why tattoos? Why not painting or sculpture or literally any other art form?”
I wasn’t expecting a genuine question. Most people ask about pain tolerance or whether I have tattoos. But he would know that just by looking at my arms. The fact that Reece is asking about motivation throws me.
“Permanence,” I say finally. “Tattoos are forever. You can’t erase them, paint over them, or pretend they didn’t happen. People choose to mark their bodies with something meaningful, and I get to be part of making it real.”
He’s really listening and not waiting for his turn to talk.
“Plus…” I add, “… there’s power in it. Taking someone’s story, memory, or loss and turning it into art they carry with them. It matters.”
“You matter,” he says quietly.
I take another sip of wine, needing the distraction.
“Your turn,” I say. “Why baseball?”
