“So this thing we’re doing, it’s more than just playing with your cap?”
“I thought I made it clear that this was going to get serious when I invited you to meet my parents. Sorry if I didn’t.”
“Be really clear, will you?”
“I want to date you, and only you. I want to kiss you, and only you. I want to make love to you, and only you. But even more than that, I want to be the one who makes you smile, and laugh, and be happy. When you’re sad, I want to wipe your tears, and when you need a break from your responsibilities, I want to provide it. And I want you to meet my mother.”
“Wow.” I can’t even speak. “What if she hates me?”
“She won’t hate you, but she won’t approve of us either.”
“Do you care?”
“She’ll come around.” He stares at me. “I already told her all about you.”
Be still my galloping heart. “You did?”
“Yes.” He still doesn’t break eye contact.
“Are you getting a tattoo today or what?” Emilio calls from the other side of the curtain. “Or are you just going to keep up the lovey-dovey bullshit?”
I growl and Ryan’s brow furrows.
“Emilio says we should get on with the tattoo.”
He looks down at his watch. “Yes, we should. I have another client at six.” He pulls out a piece of paper with a drawing on it. “You want to see it?”
I look everywhere but at it. “I trust you. Just put it on.”
“You don’t want to see it?”
I shake my head. “I know it’ll be perfect.”
I’m giving him a daunting responsibility, I know, but I feel confident about this. About his ability and the way he understands me.
“Do you mind if I take some before pictures?” he asks.
“Why?”
“Just for me. I promise not to share them with anybody. I like to compare the before and after shots when I work on scars.”
I shrug my shoulders. “I don’t see why not.”
He pulls out his phone and snaps pictures of both my forearms. Then he grins at me. “Ready?”
I nod and wiggle in the chair because I’m so excited.
Ryan applies the stencil to my forearm, and Emilio steps behind the curtain. He takes one look at it and then he starts to blink hard and clears his throat.
“Is it bad?” I ask.
“He knows you already,” he says, his voice heavy.
“I think he does,” I say quietly.
“Trust me, Lark, he does. He knows you better than anyone ever has.”
“I haven’t known him very long, Melio,” I say. We talk out loud, which I know is rude, but I need some reassurance that what I’m feeling is okay, that it’s real.