Page 143 of Business Casual
He’s gone still, his broad shoulders inching up toward his ears. “Yes?”
I scoot closer on my tiny wheeled stool. Five years ago, if you would have told me I was planning on proposing to a man in the back room of the tattoo studio I own in the town I grew up in, I would have laughed in your face. I never thought a committed relationship was something I could want, but Charlie has shown me every day that wanting and needing and loving and living are all strings on a braid twisted together. I tug on one of those ribbons and everything pulls tighter. Stronger.
I rub at his finger. “What about a tattoo right here?”
He glances down at our hands, then drags his gaze to my face. He stares at me for a long time. “Right there?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“That specific finger?”
“Yup.”
“What would you—” He takes a deep breath and then releases it, a tremble in his hands where mine grip his. “What would you want to put there?” he asks.
“A simple black band, I think,” I answer. It’s a monumental effort not to grin. “Not too thick. You could wear a ring over it, if you wanted. Maybe silver to match that new watch I got you last—”
Charlie grabs me under my arms and hauls me up his body, not waiting for me to finish my sentence. One hand cups the back of my neck and the other sinks into my hair, my body perched above his. Hedrags my face to his and kisses me, wild and wonderful, tongue and teeth and messy, delicious delight. He kisses me like he’s been dying to do exactly that since he walked into the studio.
Since we danced on a bunch of mismatched rugs.
“To be clear,” he whispers against my mouth. “You’re asking me to marry you, right?”
I laugh. It feels right to do it like this. In the back room of my studio with Charlie shirtless beneath me, his hands tight on my body and my knees hugging his hips. All of my marks on his body. Some of his on mine. We’ve always been a mess, the two of us. Impulsive and fumbling our way through. But there’s no one I’d rather make mistakes with than Charlie.
“Yes.” I drag my fingers through his hair and curl both of my arms around his shoulders. “I’m asking you to marry me. What do you think?”
He sighs, low and slow. His fingers spread across the small of my back, holding me tight. Holding me steady.
“Yes,” he says quietly. He drops a quick kiss to my shoulder, voice thick. “I’d love to marry you.”
We stand there like that for a long time, just the two of us, my cheek pressed to his heart, the steady thump of it in my ear. I drag my nails up and down his spine until he shivers. Then I do it again.
“Could I—” He stops abruptly, swallowing down the rest of his question. His bare arms tense and then relax against me, fingers twitching against my sides.
I tip my chin against his chest and stare up at him. “Could you what?”
He shakes his head and drops a kiss on my nose. “It doesn’t matter. We’ll figure it out later.”
“Figure what out later?”
“It’s not important.”
I sigh. “Charlie.”
“Nova.”
“Tell me.”
He watches me carefully, and I wait as he struggles to find his words.
“Could I take your name?” he finally asks. His Adam’s apple bobs in his throat with a heavy swallow. “When we get married, I mean. Could I—could I be a Porter?”
I have to take a second to breathe through the pinch in my chest. “Is that something you want?”
He nods.
I feel myself smile. “I’m pretty sure you’ve been an honorary Porter for a couple of years now.”
