The way he pushes his tongue into his cheek as though he doesn’t like my comment has me shifting on the stool beside him.
"It's as permanent as I want it to be. Tattoos can be removed."
"Even if you get it removed, it could still leave a scar."
His eyes flick to mine, dark and intense. "Maybe I want the reminder. I have no intention of forgetting my first and last marriage."
First and last.I can't help it. Those words make my breath catch in my throat. I can't be sure what they mean. Does he mean he plans to keep me, or does he simply mean he has no plan to ever get married again? Neither makes sense, given that he wascarrying a ring in his pocket the night we randomly decided to set this fake marriage in motion.
Here I am, overthinking again, letting my mind travel down roads that lead to inevitable ends. I stand abruptly, needing air, and hike my thumb over my shoulder. "I think I saw a coffee shop. I'm going to grab another. Want me to grab you one?"
"Sure," he says with a heavy sigh.
Did he feel it too? Or am I imagining things?
I'm almost to the door, my hand on the handle, when I remember I have no money. Heat creeps up my neck as I turn back. The worst part of all this might be that I have no money of my own. I've never worked—at least not a job that earns me a paycheck. I pull the card I never returned out of my pocket and hold it up.
"Mind if I use this?"
He doesn't even look up from where the needle is tracing black ink into his skin, but I see the corner of his mouth twitch. "My money is your money. You're my wife, sweetheart."
Sweetheart.The use of that nickname needles at my nerves because it feels like a power play. Like he’s getting me back for walking away while he gets the wedding ring I requested tattooed on his finger.
"Don't call me that."
"Why?" Now he does look up, and the heat in his gaze pins me in place. "Does it bother you...sweetheart?"
"It's disingenuous," I manage, gripping the doorframe a little tighter than necessary.
"So is this entire marriage." He holds up his hand, showing me the half-finished band wrapping around his finger. "But here we are, making it permanent anyway."
The artist glances between us, clearly entertained.
"You're the one who suggested this," I point out, gesturing vaguely at his hand.
"And you're the one who demanded I get a ring." His eyes don't leave mine. "Seems like we both got what we wanted."
Did we?
"Two coffees, then," I say, needing to escape before I do something stupid like ask him what he really meant about this being his last marriage. "Black. No sugar?"
"You remembered." He sounds almost surprised.
Of course I remembered. I remember everything about you, and I hate myself for it.
"Don't read into it. I'm just a good actress."
"The best," he agrees, but something flickers in his eyes. "Almost had me convinced you actually give a damn."
I leave before I can respond, my heart hammering against my ribs.
This is just a role. Just a performance.So why does it feel like every word between us is carving something permanent into my chest, deeper than any tattoo ever could?
CHAPTER SIX
TRIGGER
"Holy shit," Asha says in awe as the Arora Estate comes into view. "We are definitely breeding the wrong animals."
