Page 84 of The Heart Breaker

My brows lift. “Is that why you punched Chase?”

“That’s different.” His jaw tightens. “He deserved it.”

My first instinct is to argue, but I don’t, because the words he threw at me in the locker room are swimming in my head.

Doesn’t matter how I feel about you. That doesn’t give him the right to call you a slut.

My stomach twists. I still can’t believe Chase called me that, like I didn’t spend three years being loyal to him.

And somehow, despite all the history between me and Cole, despite all the reasons we should hate each other, he heard that and snapped. He got himself benched because of me.

I look up at him, and something in his expression makes my chest feel too tight.

So I step back.

I drift toward the coffee table instead, needing something else to look at, and that’s when I spot the thick black sketchbook sitting there.

“Can I?” I ask, glancing over my shoulder at him, my fingers hovering above it.

He shrugs and leans back against the wall, folding his arms over his chest. “Knock yourself out.”

I flip it open, and my breath catches.

It’s page after page of tattoo designs. I turn another page, then another, taking in sheets of flash designs that go from thin, delicate script to more detailed designs.

“Wow,” I mutter, flipping the page again. “I seriously hate complimenting you, but holy shit. These are really good.”

I hear him let out a huff, but I’m too focused on the page to look up.

“Have you done any on yourself?” I ask.

“Yeah,” he says. “A couple.”

I glance up just as he pushes off the wall, reaches behind his neck, and drags his shirt over his head.

My stomach flips, which is stupid, because I’ve seen him shirtless before. A lot. But I’ve never really looked. Not like this. Not up close.

Ink covers his arms and chest, and all I can do is stare. I’ve always loved how tattoos are basically art, just on skin instead of a canvas.

“I did these three,” he says, pointing to the cluster of birds along his side. “And these.” He lifts his hand so I can see the small tattoos stretched across his fingers. A skull and a tiny S. “It hurt like hell. It’s way easier letting someone else do it.”

Before I can think it through, my fingertip brushes lightly along the birds on his ribs. “They’re so cool.”

He scoffs. “They’re shit,” he says, glancing down at my hand still resting against his side. “But I had to start somewhere.”

I lift my head, and as soon as his eyes meet mine, I realize my hand is still on him and we’re both just standing there… staring at each other.

Cole steps back and runs a hand through his hair. “I eventually want a huge back piece,” he says, like the last few seconds didn’t happen. “That takes forever, though. Probably days. Costs a fortune too.”

My deeply unhelpful brain fills with the image of black ink spread across his back, and my teeth catch my bottom lip.

A smirk tugs at his mouth, and he reaches across the desk, grabs a pen, and presses it into my hand.

I blink down at it. “What’s this for?”

“I need a new tattoo.” He nods toward the sketchbook. “Draw something.”

I just stare at him, my grip tightening around the pen while I try to figure out if he’s messing with me, but his expression doesn’t change.