Page 42 of Look, Don't Touch

“I have them all over. Do you have something against tattoos?” I don’t often display them. They’re for me. Not the world. But I’ve met people who hate them on principle. Desecrating God’s creation and all that. I understand the sentiment, even if I don’t agree with it.

“No,” he snaps. “I just didn’t think you had any.”

“I don’t often display them.” There’s something here. Whether it’s my tattoos, women having tattoos, or tattoos in general. I tuck it away for later and grab my ponytail and slide my other arm into my coat. “I don’t know how you could even see them.”

“Your shirt is sheer.” Mr. Judge pulls up the collar and presses it close to my neck.

My turtleneck is slightly translucent in the back. That’s why I wore a black bra underneath and my leather crop jacket on top. Still, I don’t think it’s risqué. Not sheer enough to make out the details of my black crow and his skeletal partner. “I apologize. I didn’t realize it was quite so inappropriate.”

“It’s not. There’s no need to apologize.” His words are right by my ear. They vibrate against my nape and remind me of Crave.

Dammit.

Without thinking, I shoot forward and leave Mr. Judge to follow in my wake. We make our way through the maze of hallways to the elevator, and I stab the call button with more force than necessary.

“I’ve made you uncomfortable,” he says after several beats. It’s not an apology. Simply an observation.

“Turnabout is only fair, I suppose.” One at a time, I button my coat. “Do you have any…tattoos?”

“No.”

The single word is too short and clipped to make heads or tails of it. Luckily, the elevator arrives, and we get on in silence. When the doors close, it’s hard to say which of us is more on edge. There’s no outright fidgeting. There’s no glancing at the numbers. We just ride in a wicked stalemate that I don’t understand at all.

When the doors open, I lead him out onto the street, across it—at a crosswalk because I’m not a monster—and to the coffee cart slightly diagonal to my office building. We order two black coffees. He pays.

From there, I take three steps, and he follows. We enter Central Park. It’s bustling but not nearly as busy as it will be tomorrow. Weekends in the park are insane, especially during the turning of the leaves. The trees still create a canopy over the walkway, though it won’t be long until they go bare.

We approach a T in the path, and I continue straight, walking toward the thigh-high fence. Beyond it is still green grass and a little farther is a small lake. The path to the left will lead to it. Yet I walk straight. I’m less than a foot from it when his hand hooks around my waist, and he redirects me to the right.

“Were you just going to walk into the partition?” His hand drops away, but his forgotten voice sure picks up the slack.

“If you’d let me.” I lift the coffee to my lips and take a generous sip. It’s hot. Nearly scalding. My tolerance is high.

He hisses, and I don’t know if it’s from touching me, my response, or my gulp of coffee. He hasn’t touched his.

“It seems like a gimme.” I shrug and keep pace with his long, steady strides.

“How so?”

“Let’s see.” I focus on the path and the people passing us. “Between my undergarments, shirt, skirt, and coat, there were four layers between my skin and yours. It can barely be considered a touch.”

“Was my date to be naked for this coffee date? I’m pretty sure you said that even strippers would be clothed in this weather.”

“You’re right.” I blow on the steaming liquid before I sip this time. “Just know, you got off light this time.”

“Is that so?” He says it like he doesn’t believe it. “How’s this?” His big hand gestures toward a bench off to the side sans the telltale hints of bird droppings.

“Perfect.” I hide my smile, knowing he’s picked it, especially for this reason. I sit near the arm, giving him the option of sitting as close or as far away as he’d like. Once more, I’m shocked at how close he sits. There’s room between us, but only a few inches, not the gaping feet I’d expected. “Have you ever had a pet?”

He looks at me. On instinct, I meet his gaze. His lips are quirked in such a way that his chiseled jaw is accentuated even more. Thick brows hood his already shadowy eyes. “Here you go with the unexpected questions again.”

His expression is cute, and a bit of melancholy tugs at my chest because I’ve missed it every other time he’s given it in my presence. “Here you go with the evasion again.”

“I’m not evading. I’m just…” He presses his full lips into a line, draws a breath, and then releases both. “My mom had a dog.”

“What was its name?”

“Pepper. She was a black Pomeranian.” He blows on his steaming coffee.

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