I take a sip of bourbon.
Focus.
“So,” I say, shifting the conversation, “can I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“That tattoo.”
Her fork pauses halfway to her mouth. “What tattoo?”
“The one above your collarbone.”
Her eyes widen.
Way to keep things professional.
“How did you …”
“I saw a little of it. Your first day.”
She looks confused.
“The white sweater,” I remind her.
Understanding dawns.
“Oh. Right.” She laughs softly. “I didn’t realize it was visible until it was too late.”
“Just the edge. I couldn’t really make it out.”
She studies me curiously. There’s a brief pause in conversation. Then something mischievous sparks in her eyes.
“Well …”
She reaches for the buttons of her blouse.
My brain short-circuits.
“Harleigh—”
But she’s already unbuttoning the top three.
Then she slips her right arm out of the sleeve. The fabric falls away from her shoulder. And suddenly, the tattoo is fully visible.
Black ink curls across her skin in elegant script, running from the top of her shoulder toward her throat.
My mouth goes dry as I read the words.
She’s not just a fire.
She’s wildfire.
Geezus.
The curve of the lettering follows the line of her collarbone perfectly.
My eyes track it before I can stop myself.
