Page 34 of Campfires & Canines
"You have no idea," Marigold quips with a sigh.
I raise one eyebrow at her. "Sometimes you guys sound an awful lot like a cult."
She wrinkles her nose. "Not like that."
"I mean, my uncle has a personal assistant. I didn't see that coming."
"Slate's more like a protégé," she says. "Speaking of, you didn't tell me anything about yesterday."
I stare at her, unsure of what to say. There’s so much to tell but I don’t want to think about any of it. It’s simultaneously delicious and agonizing. "Yeah." My fingers spin my ring absently.
"I don't like how that sounds." She frowns.
"Well, I got a super cute tattoo."
"You did." She nods along. “And what about the moody artist?"
"Not great." I flatten my lips between my teeth. "I'm kind of embarrassed."
Marigold is quick to soothe me. "You don't have to tell me. But I promise, I'll blame him entirely."
It works. The damn breaks. "It was terrible."
"I'm sure it's not that bad. There's no way it's worse than some of the stuff I've done." She's so kind, but I doubt it.
"Okay, everything was great while he tattooed me, right? And I love it. But then afterward he was right up in my space, and he was staring at my lips, I swear. I mean, he’s so cute. I thought we were having a moment so…” Cringing, I force the words out. “I kissed him."
Marigold throws her hands over her mouth with a dramatic gasp. Creeks burning, I hang my head.
"And then?" she demands.
I take a deep breath. "Honestly, I swear he was into it. He stuck his tongue in my mouth, for fork’s sake." I pause, the memory lighting up my nerves. "But then he jumped back like he suddenly discovered I was a slug."
"Are you serious?"
“Yup.”
“No!”
"He said he doesn't date." I shrug, trying to remain cool.
"What an idiot," she groans.
"He was trying to let me down gently. I'm glad he told me after a kiss and not after... whatever."
I can almost feel the sensation of his hands on my waist, demanding, pulling me against him. The heat of his mouth. I would have gone along with anything at that moment. Unable to show my face, I rest my forehead on my crossed arms.
"Look, I know this doesn't help, but he is totally into you. I've seen how he looks at you."
"Kinda makes it worse," I try to joke, but it comes out more of a whine.
"This is a Slate problem. Maybe he'll get his head out of his ass, maybe not,” she says, “but you definitely shouldn't wait around for him."
I straighten. “You’re right.”
“Of course I am.”
Deep breath. This isn’t the end of the world.
