Same brunette hair. Same blue eyes. Same round cheeks I’d spent too many years wishing were thinner. Same body. Same Josie.
Except, not exactly.
The tattoo changed something. Not physically. It wasn’t like I’d suddenly become edgy or mysterious because I had an ice cream cone permanently inked on my wrist.
But, I don’t know. It felt like proof.
Proof that I could make decisions for myself. Proof that I didn’t need permission anymore. Proof that the version of me who waited around for someone else to approve of my dreams was gone.
That part felt good. Really good. Which was why it irritated me that Rome kept sneaking into my thoughts.
I turned on the faucet and carefully washed around the tattoo.
His voice echoed in my head.
Keep it clean.
Thin layer of ointment.
Don’t scratch it.
I rolled my eyes. The man had given me instructions like I was a child. Granted, I probably needed them. I was already contemplating scratching around the edges because it itched.
I dried my hands and looked at my wrist again.
Then...
Without meaning to...
I remembered his hands.
Big.
Warm.
Steady.
A shiver ran down my spine.
I immediately frowned. “No.” Absolutely not. We were not shivering over a man. I pointed at myself in the mirror. “We’ve discussed this.”
Had we? Not really. Maybe we should.
I leaned against the counter and crossed my arms. Rome was attractive.
There. I admitted it. He was also funny. And kind.
Annoyingly kind, but that didn’t mean anything. He was probably like that with everyone.
I frowned. No. That wasn’t right.
He wasn’t nice to everyone.
He was sarcastic. Gruff. Intimidating.
But, he had to be good with people.
He was a tattoo artist and people trusted him.
