Page 157 of Nash
Nash crosses the room. His arm slides around my waist, his thumb tracing my hip through my shirt. Both corners of his mouth turned up in a smile. His eyes warm.
I lean up and press my mouth to his jaw.
"Thank you," I whisper.
"For what?"
"For tonight. For standing next to me. Being here." I press up on my toes, my mouth near his ear, but not quiet enough. "And for making me come so hard my knees are still weak."
Candace chokes on her drink. Darla's mouth drops open. Sloane covers her face with both hands. Maggie turns to James and says something I can't hear, but James's ears go red again.
Nash's jaw clenches. His hand tightens on my hip. He looks down at me with an expression that promises I will be paying for that comment later, in detail, and I will enjoy every second of the payment.
"RUBY!" East yells from the couch. "There are BABIES in this room."
"The babies are asleep, Greg."
"MY NAME IS NOT—"
Darla puts her hand over his mouth.
I grin up at Nash. He smirks, then shakes his head.
Chapter 35
Ruby
I'mcleaningmymachinewhen Frankie comes out of the back room carrying hers.
She's changed the needle cartridge. Sets up her tray on the counter beside my station. Her movements are deliberate, arranged. I've worked beside this woman long enough to know the difference between Frankie setting up for a client and Frankie setting up for a moment.
"Your turn," she says.
"My turn for what?"
She picks up my compass rose sketch from the worktop. The one I've been refining for months with the broken points and the wisteria bleeding at the edges. She holds it up.
"Sit down."
I stare at the design in her hand. My design. The compass rose with the heart in the east point, the star in the south for Sera, the steady north point for home, and the open west point that leads somewhere I haven't decided yet.
"You're tattooing me?"
"I'm tattooing you." She pats the client chair. "Sit."
I sit. My hands are shaking. Nash pulls a chair from the waiting area and sets it beside the tattoo station, his knee touching mine when he sits.
Frankie traces my design onto transfer paper, her hand steady, her lines clean. She positions the transfer on my inner forearm, then peels the paper. The compass rose is in blue on my skin.
"Frankie."
"Mm."
"Why tonight?"
She sets the transfer paper down. She looks at me, and I know that look. The flat, steady gaze that means whatever comes next is going to rearrange my future.
"I'm giving you the shop."
