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I find him sitting at my tiny kitchen table, in a clean white T-shirt, his hair still damp. He looks hot—ridiculously so—but I preferred him sprawled out naked on my sheets. Actually, scrap that. I preferred him sweaty, paint-smudged, and enthusiastically pounding into me. But this is fine too.
He’s taken out the chicken pizza I put on, cut it up, and served it onto plates. Even raided my fridge and found that sad little bag of rocket and some cherry tomatoes, tossed them in olive oil and balsamic vinegar, and made a simple side salad. Got us each a glass of water too.
“Wow, this is great!” I say enthusiastically.
“Hmm. Don’t take this the wrong way, but your fridge is tragic. This was the best I could do. Anyway, tuck in.”
We both do.
“You know,” I say after a few bites, “if we bump into Ally again, I can no longer claim you haven’t laid a finger on me.”
Robbie rolls his eyes but doesn’t reply, just tears into another slice of pizza.
“Speaking of Ally—well, all my brothers, really—can I ask you something? Do you think there’s an expiry date for being seen as the irresponsible wee sister? Or will they still view me that way that even when I’m ninety-two and zipping about on my mobility scooter?”
Robbie’s lips twitch, but there’s something thoughtful in his eyes. He swallows. “I’m probably not the best person to ask. People still see the version of me they remember from years ago, not who I am now. But your brothers’ nagging and fussing? Well . . . it shows they care, right?”
I’m not quite sure what to say to that. The irony isn’t lost on me—Robbie defending my brothers’ interference when he and Ally spent half their teenage years scrapping like terriers. But he’s got a point. They do care.
We eat some more, then Robbie takes a swig of water, his throat bobbing as he gulps it down. I’m momentarily distracted—not by the muscles working in his neck (although that’s hardly an eyesore)—but by the belladonna tattoo peeking out just above his collarbone. I want to know more about his tattoos.
Leaving my last slice of pizza untouched, I stand, pad around the table, and swing a leg over his lap, settling myself astride him like it’s the most natural thing in the world. He leans back, eyebrows rising like he’s not sure whether to laugh or brace himself for impact.
“Take your top off.”
He lets out a low chuckle but obliges, baring all that beautiful artwork for me to admire again. Earlier, I was too blissed out to ask questions, but not now.
“Good lad,” I murmur, staring like the lech I am. “Talk me through each of these.” I trace the raven on his biceps with one finger, following the sweep of its wings and the elegant curve of its beak.
“Well, that’s a raven.”
I swat at him playfully. “I know that. But why did you get it?”
He shrugs. “Thought it suited me. Dark and brooding.”
Well, I can’t argue with that.
“But also, ravens are adaptable. They survive when others don’t.”
“All right. And the broken chain?” My finger follows the tattoo that wraps around his upper chest, lingering on the link that’s broken.
“That one’s about my da.”
I wait, giving him space to elaborate.
“Despite living in the same town and working at the same place, we’ve never . . . connected. I got that tattoo after a bad argument a few years back.”
“What happened?”
“An issue with a guest, this entitled arsehole who kept making inappropriate comments to the female staff. I told him to back off, and he complained to management. My da called me into his office and tore into me without even asking me for my side of the story.”
Robbie glances down at the chain. “Of course, I wouldn’t have got inked just for that one incident, but . . . it was the straw that broke the camel’s back.”
My fingers itch to squeeze his hand, to offer him some kind of comfort, but before I get the chance, his phone buzzes on the table, slicing through the moment.
“Sorry.” He reaches around me to grab it then scans the message that’s come in. His brow furrows. “It’s David.” He turns the phone to show me.
David
