Page 13 of Getting Over You

Idon’t spend the time that EJ is at work wallowing—not really. I wouldn’t consider scrolling through tattoo shop decor and inspiration wallowing at all. Nothing to be sad about when I’m certain a tattoo shop is in my future.

But I’m done entirely the minute one of the hottest girls I’ve ever seen walks into EJ’s apartment.

She’s not as tall as Rory from the other night. I can see the curve of her waist through the blue dress she’s wearing. The jean jacket she has on over it makes me wonder if there’s any ink covering those arms.

Could I get so lucky?

She shrugs off her jacket the minute she walks in, discarding it nearby. And her arms are disappointingly empty. But still golden tan and beautiful.

God, Cade. Keep yourself together and keep your dick in your pants.

She smiles at me and all bets—including the silent one I just made with my lower region—are decidedly off.

“Cade,” she says. “Right?”

EJ and Rory are in the kitchen, already immersed into a conversation about something as they pull beers from the fridge and EJ’s apparent smoking stash from cabinets.

“Yeah,” I say.

“They said you were hot,” the girl tells me. She crosses the room, sitting beside me on the couch. “But I don’t see it. I’m Gigi. And I don’t think you’re that cute. For the record.”

I scoff. “Excuse me?”

“I mean,” she continues, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear, “I don’t find you hot.”

“Well, thanks. You’re a real peach.”

“I’m sorry,” she says, chewing on the inside of her cheek. “But the tattoos. They’re, like, scaring me.”

“My…” I look down at the sleeve on my right arm, the top of the piece covered by my T-shirt, then my left. “My sleeves scare you?”

“Scared isn’t the right word.” She shakes her head. I watch her intently. “Just intimidated, maybe?”

“That’smuchbetter.”

“Do people avoid asking you for help in public?” she asks. “Because the tattoos would keep me from asking you for help—even if my cat was stuck in a tree. I would probably avoid asking the guy with a jaw like a knife and menacing ink on his arms.”

Menacing ink. I snicker. “Menacing. Really?”

“When I think of tattoos, I think biker gangs and bad boys,” she says.

“This one here,” I say, pointing to the wreath of flowers around the biggest part of my right bicep, “I got it for my grandma. Daisies were her favorite flower. So, I got some.”

She surveys the black ink, running thin, cold fingers over my arm as she turns it to inspect the tattoo in its entirety. “I like that you did flowers—not her name.”

“One of my buddies got a tattoo of his ex-girlfriend’s face,” I say. “How’s that for a memorial tattoo? He skipped her name entirely.”

Her lips part, jaw going slack. “You’re kidding.”

“Afraid not,” I say. “It happens a lot. Worst part is, I’m the one that did the tattoo for him.”

Her bright blue eyes go wide in horror. “Someone let you put that on them? You can’t be serious.”

I nod. “Serious.”

“No way.”

“I thought you were going to be more surprised that I did the tattoo, not that my friend allowed me to be the one to do it,” I tell her with a chuckle. “Usually, that’s what impresses girls.”

---