Page 32 of Ink Me Three Times
Just shrugs. "Yeah."
"That’s it? Just… yeah?"
"I told you. It was one night. Doesn’t matter."
I tap my fingers on the counter. "Because if you don’t care, and she’s still orbiting the shop and Freddie’s place and, you know, looking very cute in oversized hoodies and doom energy… I might ask her out."
Mitchell finally meets my eye. Still no reaction. No flicker of emotion. His voice is cool.
"Do what you want."
Not permission, exactly. But not a warning either.
I nod slowly. "Noted."
He turns away. Ends the conversation without ending it.
But I’m already cataloguing her laugh. Her eyes. The way she flipped me off like it was foreplay and not a threat.
And if Mitchell’s so dead set on pretending it meant nothing?
Well. That’s not my problem.
CHAPTER NINE
Ivy
Some days start badlyand just… keep going.
First, Penny refused to nap. Full dictator mode. Arms crossed. Lower lip jutting out like she’d been trained in the art of silent protest by an actual union. I tried bribery, threats, interpretive dance… nothing.
She simply stared at me like I was a joke she didn’t find funny.
Then Jesse, bless his meddling little heart, accidentally texted me a photo of my ex’s new girlfriend.
Caption:Just thought you should see how tragic her highlights are.
Sure, Jesse. Definitely not intentional. Definitely not designed to stir the boiling pit of unresolved rage and existential despair currently living in my stomach.
By the time I finally got Penny into pajamas, we were both hanging on by a thread. She insisted on two and a half bedtime stories, because apparently, cliffhangers are for cowards, and then made me rub her back like I was being paid by the hour.
I only escaped after she passed out mid sentence, snoring into her pillow, one foot kicked out like she was preparing for a fight in her sleep.
I tiptoe out of the room like a bomb technician, easing the door shut with the slowest, softest click of my life. And then I just… stand there.
Breathing.
Like I’ve been underwater for hours and finally surfaced.
I’m bone tired. Emotionally frayed. My hair’s half up in what used to be a bun, I’m wearing Freddie’s ancient Ramones shirt that I definitely didn’t ask to borrow, and I smell vaguely like fruit snacks and toddler tears.
I need air.
And possibly tequila.
Instead, I find Freddie.
He’s just come in through the back door, keys in hand, takeout bag dangling from his fingers, still wearing his work shirt, soft gray, sleeves rolled to the elbows, collar a little rumpled like he’s been tugging at it all day. His hair’s a mess, a few sun streaked strands falling over his forehead, and he’s got that scruff shadow thing going on that should be illegal for anyone trying to make good decisions.
