Rome looked away toward the front windows out at the dark street.
I watched his profile. The hard line of his jaw. The tattoo disappearing beneath the collar of his shirt.
Then he looked back at me. “What do you want?”
I blinked. “Huh?”
“What tattoo?”
“Oh.” I looked down at my wrist. “I was thinking...” Suddenly, I felt stupid.
Rome waited patiently, which somehow made it worse.
“An ice cream cone,” I blurted.
He stared at me, and I braced for laughter. Instead, he nodded. “That fits.”
Relief flooded me. “You think?”
“Yeah.”
I smiled. “I know it’s cheesy.”
“No.” His voice was firm. “Tattoos are whatever you want, baby. Whether it’s an ice cream cone, tribal, or Chester Cheeto. I’m down with it.”
“Chester Cheeto?”
He nodded. “I’ve done three of them so far, baby. There are people out there who love their Cheetos. I’m not here to judge anyone.” He pointed at my wrist. “Yours can be your fresh start.”
My chest squeezed unexpectedly. Because, yeah, that was exactly what it was.
Not ice cream.
Not really.
Proof that my life didn’t end when my marriage did.
Rome walked toward the counter and grabbed a sketchbook.
“Show me.”
I followed him.
We spent the next twenty minutes drawing.
Or rather...
Rome drew.
I poorly tried to tell him what I wanted.
Eventually, we settled on something simple.
A waffle cone with three scoops and tiny sparkles around it that was small enough to sit on the inside of my wrist.
I stared at the drawing and suddenly got nervous.
Rome noticed. “You don’t have to.”
