I scan it, instantly spotting a few pieces of cables, and sliding them in easily. She spots one and slots it in. I feel a little like I’ve pulled off a bank robbery. I stole some more time with her on what feels like a real fucking date. I roll up the cuffs of my shirt a few times, and her gaze snaps to my right forearm.
“You have an owl tattoo,” she says, staring right at the fine black lines of the bird.
“I do.” I wonder if she’s seen it before. I wear T-shirts—most of the guys do—during media interviews. Maybe she’s never noticed. No big deal.
Right. You wish she’d catalogued every detail of you.
She leans closer, studying the linework. It’s a simple drawing, more stylized than realistic. “It’s so minimalist and pretty.”
I’m about to ask if she wants to touch it, but I don’t have to. Because there she goes, reaching for it, her hand coming closer, so close my skin is tingling with anticipation. But she stops when she’s an inch away, pulling back her hand and taking a drink. “It’s a great tattoo,” she says when she finishes.
“Thanks. I like it a lot too.”
She glances down at it once more, and I swear her breath catches. And I file that reaction away, too, as I take a drink, hiding a sly grin.
But the grin vanishes when she wags a finger at me. “We have a lot to discuss. Starting with your acting.”
I groan, slumping back in my chair. Not sure why but I don’t really want to dive into the alleged sunshine side of me. Or the acting, since it was hardly acting. Tattoos are more fun to talk about. “What about it?” I ask, all gruff again.
“You were so upbeat. It was…a contrast.”
“You saying you think I’m, what? A grump?”
She gives me a gentle look. “You’re kind of…broody.”
“Understatement,” I say under my breath.
Even though I really want to sayAnd do you like that?But I’m not going to fish for compliments. I drink some coffee, and she takes a swallow of her latte, then adds, “I was kind of surprised.”
Yeah, I was too. I wasn’t expecting to have to go full simp today.
When I set down the mug, I scrub a hand across my beard, then answer her with honesty. “I figured you didn’twant a grumpy-ass hockey player who despises people-ing as your fake boyfriend.”
She laughs, snorting out some of her chai, and holy shit, it’s the most adorable thing I’ve seen.
More so when her pretty brown eyes sweep down her shirt, checking for spots. Grabbing a napkin, she shakes her head and says, “Pretend you didn’t see that.”
“Nope, can’t unsee it,” I say. “You totally snorted it right out of your nose. That was…impressive to say the least.”
“It’s your fault. You made me laugh,” she says, pointing a finger.
“By speaking the truth?”
“Yes.”
“I’m not wrong though. About any of it.”
“I don’t know,” she says, her tone doubtful. “You were pretty social there at the picnic. You talked to everyone.”
“I talked to the people you wanted me to talk to. I did it for you,” I say plainly, then grab a piece of the orange pylon and slide it into place.
She stops with the drink halfway to her mouth. “You did?” She sounds shocked, but delighted too. It’s a good sound.
“Of course I did,” I say.
She’s quiet for a beat before she says, in a softer voice, “I don’t even know what to say.”
Say how much you liked the kisses. Say you want another one.“I was just doing what you asked me to do,” I say, nonchalant. “Being your plus-one.”
