Page 27 of Keeping Kaitlyn

“A dragonfly.”

When I say it, he stops tugging on his gloves and flicks a hard, black look at me through his lashes, mouth open on a reply designed to gut me where I stand but before it can find its wayout of his mouth, he remembers we have an audience and snaps it shut.

“One dragonfly, coming up,” he says instead, giving his gloves a final adjustment before he raises his head, pinning his dark gaze to a spot on my forehead. “Shoulder?” His gaze slides down the side of my face to my bare shoulder. “It’d be easiest—that way no one has to get half naked.” I’m sure no one can hear the slight emphasis on his last two words but me. Leave it Went to figure out how to take a swing at me, audience or not.

“Okay.” I give him a jerky nod. “Yeah—that sounds good. The left one, please.”

Went makes a noise in the back of his throat. “Lay on your stomach,” he instructs me while pointing his chin at the adjustable, padded table between us.

Giving him another jerky nod, I climb onto the table and lay flat on my stomach, face turned toward the wall of mirrors, opposite the sink, so I can look at him without being too obvious. I watch him quietly for a few moments before aiming my gaze past him, at the lobby of his shop. Tess, Henley, and Maeve are standing in a tight knot, close to the front door, talking quietly.

Before I can start to worry over what they’re talking about, Went settles himself on his stool on the other side of the table, blocking my view completely and giving me nothing more than a view of his massive chest.

“You don’t have to do this,” he tells me quietly, his deep voice barely more than a whisper, a second before I feel something cold swipe against my shoulder and the astringent smell of alcohol hits my nose. “I can tell Tess my gun broke or?—”

“No.” Lifting my gaze as far as I can, I find one of the tattoos on his neck—a quote in Latin.

Acta non Verba.

Actions not words.

Closing my eyes again, I give my head a brief shake that crinkles the paper covering the padded table I’m lying on. “I want you to tattoo me.”

Went makes another one of those low, strangles sounds again. Hearing it makes it obvious he’s not happy with my answer.

Shit.

“Went—” I have no idea what I’m about to say but it doesn’t matter.

“I work free hand,” he tells me as if I didn’t already know. Still playing the part of complete stranger. “Tess says you’ve never been tattooed before.”

You know I haven’t.

Instead of saying it, I shake my head again. “No, I haven’t.”

“It feels like scratching,” he tells me while turning his tattoo gun on, filling the silence between us with a low hum. “How hard the scratching feels depends on how deep I have to push the color.”

“Okay.” I make a sound of my own and close my eyes. “I’m ready.”

The hum intensifies, a moment before Went places a steadying hand below my shoulder blade and the scratching starts.

Someday, I’ll make it permanent.

I’m going to hold you to that.

Neither of us say anything for a while, the silence growing heavier with each passing minute until I suddenly can’t stand it anymore.

“I’m sorry.” It comes out before I can stop it. The scratching on my shoulder lifts for a moment before it continues like Went had to stop and steady himself before continuing.

“For what?” he asks in a tone that makes it clear he really doesn’t want me to answer.

For making you marry me.

For leaving you six years ago.

For refusing to leave Boston when you asked me to.

“I tried to get out of it,” I tell him by way of explanation. “I usually sit for Ryan tonight so he can go to class but they had it all planned before I even knew what was happening.”

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