Page 106 of Business Casual
I also have something I want to give him.
I pat the table in front of me.
He blinks at it. “You want me to clean the table?”
“No, Charlie. I want you to sit.”
“On the table?”
“If you want, but you could also sit to the side of it. Whatever your preference.”
“For what?”
I pull out a fresh pair of gloves and tug them on. “For your tattoo.”
Both of his eyebrows shoot up. “You’re finally giving in? You’re gonna give me a scorpion on my ass?”
“If that’s what you want, sure. But I had something else in mind.”
He takes two steps closer. He’s looking at me like I’m about to call his bluff and pull out a Big Bird stencil. “What did you have in mind?”
I pat the table again, then gesture to the stool that’s tucked off tothe side. “Take a seat and I’ll tell you.” I snap the gloves against my wrist. “Or show you, I guess.”
Charlie drops himself in the stool across from me, staring hard at the table between us. His eyes drag up to mine and hold, their cobalt blue a brilliant sapphire in the soft glow of my studio. His hair is still messy from my hands and there’s some scruff along his jaw. He looks weary. Exhausted.
Hesitant.
“It’s okay if you don’t want one,” I say quietly. “If you’ve been joking, I understand.”
He doesn’t look away from me. “I haven’t been joking. I just—” He drags his palm over the back of his neck. “I don’t know what I want.”
“I have an idea.”
“Yeah?”
I nod. “I’d like to show you.”
A smile kicks up the side of his mouth. “Is it the poop emoji?”
“Maybe. You’ll just have to see, won’t you?”
I grab a black ballpoint pen from the top of my station. I did stencils tonight because it’s easier for quick turnover, but I usually hand draw with a ballpoint before I finalize with ink. I have more freedom that way. Every body is wonderfully unique, and I like to shape my lines accordingly.
I get out the rest of my supplies and place them in a neat line by my elbow, my body working on autopilot, this routine a familiar comfort. But I feel Charlie’s gaze on me the entire time, his eyes soft and inquisitive, taking in each minute detail. He doesn’t ask any of his questions, though I know he’s probably bursting with them. He just sits, watching, unusually quiet.
I hold out my hand for his and he stares at it.
“What?” he asks.
I wiggle my fingers. “Your hand, please.”
“Knuckle tats?”
I snort a laugh. “Now there’s an idea.”
He’d look good with tattoos over his big hands. I imagine dark lines decorating his fingers as his hands hold me in place, the way they might move when he squeezes my thighs. I have to take a second to compose myself.
He slips his hand into mine with a snicker. “I’d love to know what’s going on in that mind of yours.”
