Page 37 of A Cozy Holiday
Jamie frowns. “What does that even mean?”
“Apparently, I can’t deal with my feelings. Which, sure, I haven’t cried in over a decade, so maybe he had a point. But not exactly what you want to hear when your boyfriend’s dick is—” I cut myself off to take a loud sip through the straw. “But it’s fine.”
“It’s not fine.”
“The worst part? I probably would’ve married the guy so I could finally cross off the ‘single’ box in my thirties.”
“Joy.” His tone slackens. He shifts closer, knee knocking into mine. “You know that’s not a reason to marry someone, right?”
I stare at my drink. “I know.”
“Do you?”
The question lands harder than it should. “I’m very goal oriented.”
“I noticed.” His hand snakes over mine on the bar top, his thumb tracing my knuckles. “But you’re allowed to want more than checking boxes. You’re allowed to want someone who actually sees you.”
My throat tightens. “That’s very Hallmark of you.”
“I’m serious.” His fingers tighten around mine. “You deserve better than some asshole who tries to make ityourfault that he cheated.”
I lift my glass again. “What is in these drinks?” Maybe I should hire a therapist because I can’t keep my mouth shut.
“You shouldn’t settle.”
“I’m tipsy.”
“Pa always said the truth comes out after a drink or two.”
“You close with your parents?” I ask, desperately trying to change the subject.
“Yep. They’ve been married forty years.” He tilts his head. “Yours gonna miss you at Christmas?”
“Nope. Divorced. Haven’t had a normal holiday since 2005.” I slump. “This conversation is depressing me.”
“Good thing I bought you a drink. Let me put your tattoo on.” He digs in my coat pocket, which is draped on the barstool, then pulls out the little globe containing the press-on butterfly tattoo. It looks ridiculous in his big hand, like a toy he pilfered from the girls.
“Fine,” I resolve, but only because it’s better than talking about my parents’ failed marriage or cheating ex.
I hold out my arm, and he wraps my wrist in his large, calloused grip. Mine is barely a fraction of his, and the contrast makes my pulse spike. Shadows play across his deep green eyes, coiled and teasing, like a predator who can’t decide if it wants to strike or simply watch.
With his free hand, he lifts an ice cube from my mule and presses it against my skin. I don’t look down. I can’t. My body leans forward like a moth drawn to a flame, heartbeat hammering in my throat and core all at once. He circles the ice, cold water trailing down my arm, and I’m painfully aware of the soft lace of my underwear and how absurdly glad I am I wore something cute tonight.
I jolt.
“Hold still,” he murmurs, grip tightening. He drops the cube into his drink, and my eyes land on his rough thumb as it wipes away condensation. He peels the tiny, delicate film off the tattoo and presses it onto my skin.
Breathe.It’s just a fake tattoo.
“Do you do this often?”
“Mm. Every time they pass the vending machine, the girls make me,” he says, pretending he’s oblivious to the fact that I’m practically on fire over here. “Butterflies, unicorns, cats. You name it, I’ve done it.”
He’s not just hot. He’s hotanda good dad. Whereas I’m just tipsy.
After a long press, he peels the backing away. A butterfly gleams on my wrist, whimsical and sparkly, and my chest does this awful ache-laugh thing. I feel like I’m ten again, having a sleepover and laughing with my friends until Mom tells us to be quiet.
“Perfect.” He watches my lips part, then lifts my wrist to his mouth. His mustache grazes the soft inside where the butterfly sits.
