Page 53 of Once Upon A Player
I slouch in my chair and rake my hand through my hair. “What does that even mean?”
“Fucked if I know.” He broods for a few seconds, a frown slashing his forehead. “Harry’s the expert in relationships.”
We stare at each other before both snorting with laughter. A year ago, it wouldn’t have crossed either of our minds to linkHarryandexpertandrelationshipsin the same sentence, but he’s right.
My brother knows what he’s doing when it comes to Alice.
Buggered if I’m going to ask him for relationship advice, though.
The following morning I’m in bed, with Violet sprawled on top of me tracing patterns with her finger over my shoulder. I’m still sated by our early morning fuck, and idly stoke her hip before cupping her sexy butt.
She wriggles, deliberately provocative, and smiles down at me. Her hair’s tangled and tumbles over her bare shoulders, and damn if I’m not getting hard again already.
“Can I ask you a personal question?” She folds one arm across my chest to brace her weight, while her other hand smooths back my hair.
“Ask me anything you like.” It’s kind of funny she asked permission, especially after the night we’ve just shared. But hey, this is Violet, and I need to get used to the unexpected with her.
“Is there a reason you don’t have any tattoos on your right arm?”
It’s not the first time I’ve been asked that, although it’s only a relatively recent question, since it’s become more obvious. I’ve always sidestepped the answer because the truth is it never started out as a conscious decision. Not until about three years ago, when I made the choice tonothave my latest tat inked on my right bicep. Even now I’m not sure what made me do it, but since then it’s become almost a superstition.
“I guess I’m saving it for something special.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know, yet.”
She smiles, like she doesn’t believe a word. “Will you go full sleeve on your left?”
“Oh, yeah.”
She tilts her head and watches her finger trail over my shoulder onto my bicep. The sheet’s slid to her waist, revealing her beautiful curves, and I’m captivated by the enticing freckles sprinkled across her chest and shoulders.
“I love your water lilies.”
I give a faint smile, but don’t respond. It’s hardly a secret I got that tat done on my eighteenth birthday, a double water lily to represent Harry and my birth month. She continues to swirl her finger over my ink, and something tightens deep in my gut.Don’t go there, Violet.
She lets out a breathy sigh. “I’m so fascinated by the language of flowers. Well, I would be, with my name, wouldn’t I?”
My tense muscles relax, and I abandon her butt and wrap my arm across her back. “I’ve never dated a flower before.”
A delicate blush heats her cheeks, and I forget what we’re talking about. Why are we talking? I should be buried balls-deep in her sweet body. Before I can do anything about that, she brushes an oddly chaste kiss across my lips. “I always thought the tribute you did to your mum was so beautiful.”
And she went there.Like all my tats, the story behind each one is common knowledge, but most girls avoid all mention ofthatone. And why wouldn’t they? No one wants to discuss my mum’s death, least of all me.
But Violet’s still gazing at me with her gorgeous green eyes, and I have to say something. “Thanks.” My voice is gruff, and I hope she gets the message.I don’t want to talk about it.
Gently, her finger traces across the top section of my bicep. I don’t have to see what’s she’s doing to know she’s outlining the blood-red rose, the crimson tipped thorns, and the aloe backdrop.
Rose, for Mum’s middle name, aloe for grief, and I don’t think anyone needs an explanation for bloody thorns.
“It’s awful, living with the fear that your mum might…you know.” Her voice is barely above a whisper, and for a second a haunted look flashes over her face. “But for her to fall ill so suddenly and then… Well, I can’t even wrap my head around it.”
I’m suffocating, but instead of rolling Violet off me so I can breathe, I tighten my grip around her. Does she really expect me to answer? What the hell am I meant to say?
Yeah, it was fucking awful and even now the smell of a hospital makes me want to vomit.
I’m the gregarious brother, who’s never serious about anything and always has a ready quote for the press. But I’ve never been able to talk about my mum since the day she died. Not even to my own family.
