Page 85 of Love Me Tomorrow

The famous tattoo artist, the supposed inked god, is colorblind.

25

Savannah

Athousand thoughts tumble chaotically through my head.

I hear Owen’s broken apology.

I see that his face has gone ashen, like he’s caught in the midst of a nightmare.

But none of it is clicking together, not even when I look down at the sensitive, reddened skin around the wordsBe Fearlessly Unapologetic. The script is exactly what I wanted—feminine and dainty and slanted just so—but instead of the words being done in black ink, they’re a deep navy blue.

Close, but not quite.

Something is not adding up.

“It’s okay,” I hear myself say, as though I’ve been submerged in water and can’t catch a single sound. My hand drops to my side, and I deliberately unfurl my fingers so that Owen doesn’t mistake my confusion for anger. “I shouldn’t have pushed for this. You’re clearly exhausted, and, really, I don’t mind the blue. It’s beautiful.”

But instead of responding, Owen twists his big, brawny body and plants his hands on the table I was just sprawled out on. His head falls forward, that thick, black hair of his hanging boyishly over his face as he visibly draws breath into his lungs in such quick succession that concern pierces my heart.

He’s the very picture of desolation.

Is he worried about what I might think of him—about the drugs and the fight? Yes, it hurts my heart to know that he felt so alone in his grief. And, yes, it’s hard to align the man I know with the vision he painted for me of his twenty-year-old self. Thing is, he wastwenty. Still practically a child. No matter whatCelebrity Tea Presentsor any other tabloid might say about his past,Iknow that the Owen Harvey standing before me now is the man he was always meant to be.

Kind. Gracious. Humble.

You can’t fake those sorts of qualities, not for the long haul.

Moving on silent feet, I reach out and kiss my palm to the broad planes of his back. “It’s no big deal,” I tell him, my voice hushed since I’m pressed up against his side, though I’m careful not to mess with my still exposed tattoo. “Accidents happen.” In an effort to tease him, I slip my hand down his arm, then whisper my fingers over his wrist. “Never fear, Harvey, I’m not going to demand that Frannie give me back my eleven thousand. You’re in the clear.”

“I’m colorblind, Rose.”

I blink. “I’m sorry, I think my ears still might be malfunctioning after undergoing six hours of screamingPut A Ring On Itfans, because I could have sworn that you just said—”

“I don’t see color.”

Oh.

Oh, God.

Shoulders slouched, he flexes his hand beneath mine on the table before stepping out of reach. “I mean,” he says, his voice gravel-deep, “Idosee color. All of it. I just . . . don’t see it the way that you do.”

I’ve always been the sort of person to react to crises with very little fanfare—thanks, Dad—but this . . . this . . .

My fingers dart to the very first tattoo Owen gave me—a little bird caught in mid-flight that he placed behind my right ear. As I sat backward on a chair, my hair scraped up into a bun so the strands wouldn’t get in the way, I never once thought anything about the man wielding the tattoo machine in his hand, like it was an extension of himself.

I mean, Ithoughtabout him.

The deepness of his voice. The broad shoulders that I wanted to run my hands over. The aloofness in his black eyes that always sparked in challenge when I engaged him in witty banter.

But I never . . . I never once suspectedthis.

Colorblind.

Owen.

Slowly, with my hand scraping my lower belly as I snag my shirt off the ground, I turn in a small semicircle. I keep my eyes locked on the framed photos of tattoos strung up around the parlor—some of the tats were done by Gage and Jordan and Lizzie, but almost all are by Owen’s own hand. While a few are diluted black and white, more than half are color in full bloom.

---