Page 31 of Ink Me Three Times
So… does that mean she’s fair game?
I’m still chewing on that thought when the front door swings open again. Less chaos this time, more quiet precision. Enter Mitchell, in all his tall, shadowy glory, sunglasses on despite theindoor lighting, like some brooding rock star who does his taxes in Latin.
"You’re late," I say, just to annoy him.
He doesn’t bite. "You’re early."
"Wrong," I say, spinning in my chair. "I’ve been here since dawn. Working. Socializing. Fending off tiny beasts and international incidents."
He raises an eyebrow. "Did you hit your head?"
"No," I say, then pause. "Well. There was some coffee related choking, but that was laughter induced."
Mitchell drops his bag on the counter and starts unpacking his gear like it personally offended him. "Do I want to know?"
I grin. "Probably not. But I’ll tell you anyway. Ivy stopped by."
That gets a flicker. Barely. But it’s there.
"Yeah?" he says, casual. Too casual.
"Yep," I say, watching him out of the corner of my eye. "She was chasing that crazy dog of hers. Full meltdown mode. It was glorious."
"Sounds about right."
"She also mistook me foryou…in a way."
That gets a pause.
Mitchell looks up, lips twitching like he’s holding in something… amusement? Annoyance? Existential dread?
"She thought you were me?"
"Well, she was mid coffee, post dog chase, deeply frazzled. And Ididoffer her the tattoo chair, which she apparently took as code for… well, I’m guessing whatever happened with the two of you."
Mitchell exhales slowly, rubbing the bridge of his nose.
I keep going. Because I’m a menace.
"She asked if I was the one she slept with. Just… right out with it. No hesitation. I nearly died."
"Damn."
"I know. Best Tuesday I’ve had in a while."
He shakes his head, going back to his supplies. "You didn’t correct her?"
"Of course I corrected her. I’m notyou, after all."
There’s a beat of silence while he threads his machine and adjusts his station. I lean my elbows on the counter, watching him like a cat watching a ball of yarn.
"So," I say eventually. "You seriously done with that?"
"That?" he repeats.
"Ivy."
He doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t frown. Doesn’t throw anything.
