Page 4 of Forgot to Tell You Something

“I’m also geeky and klutzy. You wouldn’t want to forget those adjectives,” I shrug, trying to play off Owen’s unintentional kick to my ego.

Owen chuckles. “I agree with the klutzy part, but how are you geeky?”

I point at the tortoiseshell rims on my face. “Glasses.”

“I think a woman in glasses is sexy...particularly one who’s got a kick-ass sense of humor.”

“You’re just saying that, so I don’t kick you out of my balcony.” Although I’m sure his compliment was an offhanded offering, my ego appreciates the bolster. Sexy siren, I am not.

“You got me pegged.” There’s that laugh again, and once more, it sends tingles up my spine. It’s as if each note dances along my nerve-endings, short-circuiting my body.

While he observes the increasingly raucous crowd, I take the opportunity to steal glances in his direction. Owen is gorgeous. Drop-dead delectable. He’s tall and broad, with sleeves of tattoos covering both arms, the ink traveling up to what I surmise is a firm and sculpted chest. His dark hair is buzzed close to his head, and a neatly trimmed beard adorns his face. But it’s his eyes, dark gray like a sky right before a storm, that hold me captive.

“They all tell a story,” he murmurs, his gaze swinging back in my direction.

“What?” Crap, he caught me looking at him.

“You were checking out my ink, right?”

Sure, we’ll go with that answer. “I’m a fan of tats. I have several of my own.”

“You know you have to show me now.”

If there’s one thing I’m not shy about, it’s my body art. I’ve spent years—and thousands of dollars—decorating my skin with designs from some of the country’s top tattoo artists. I’m not covered like Owen, but my pieces are anything but flash.

I lift the cuff of my jean to show him the artwork on my calf, but Owen has other ideas as his fingers slide along my upper arm.

“This is a beautiful piece. The linework is exquisite.” He lifts my shirt, examining the half-sleeve design of flowers and fairies.

“Thanks,” I laugh, shaking my head. “I don’t know why I said thank you. I didn’t design it.”

“You selected a terrific artist, and that’s half the battle.”

“Munoz, out of Miami.” My eyes travel down to his fingers, still pressing against my skin. “It’s one of my favorite pieces.”

“I’ve read about Munoz, but now I know he does quality work.”

I startle when his fingers creep under the hem on my t-shirt, exposing my side piece.

“Ticklish?”

“Yes,” I mumble. Iamticklish, but that’s not the issue. My body is quickly overheating from this man’s caresses. The worst part? They’re not caresses; he’s just examining my ink. Now tell that to my sex-starved body, all fired up and ready for action.

Stefani is right. I need to get laid.

The feedback sounding from one of the amps rattles me from my Owen-induced stupor. Enough fuzziness and feels, it’s time for a bit of rage-filled anarchy.

“Game time.” I perch on the back of the sofa, fully expecting this gorgeous demagogue to disappear downstairs for a close-up view of the band.

Instead, Owen settles next to me with a wink. Surprising. I glance toward the bar, ensuring that Stefani is still in one piece and not an unwitting crowd surfer. I find her tucked into the far corner, chatting up some dude with a mohawk. Even here, totally out of her element, my friend draws men to her like bees to nectar.

“You’re staying?” I inquire, taking another swallow of beer. At the rate I’m drinking, I’ll need a refill before they finish the first song.

“Are you kicking me out, Tally?”

I cock my head at the nickname. “Everyone calls me Lu. My Dad is the only person who calls me Tally.”

“I prefer it to Lu. So, is it cool for me to stay?”

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