Page 26 of Hidden Memories

I lift the box. “I’m just a voyeur, Kat.”

“Are you?” She leans in, so close her breath skims my lips, teasing me with the scent of something sweet—berries, wine, temptation itself. “I would’ve taken you for more of a doer than a watcher, Santi. But then…”

Her voice trails off, her words a challenge, a dare.

My gaze drops to her mouth—those sinful, lush lips that have been taunting me for weeks. I close the space between us, slow, deliberate, testing just how far she’ll let me go before she pulls away. She doesn’t.

My voice lowers. “You want me to do something,Michi?”

She holds my gaze, unwavering. “Michi?” She cocks an eyebrow.

“Kitten.”

The blush that blooms across her cheeks is slow, creeping in like dawn over the hills. She tilts her head, something softer slipping into her eyes like she likes the way it sounds coming from my lips. Like she wants to hear it again.

“Do I need a nickname for you now?” she teases.

“No pressure.”

God, I could kiss her right now. I could ruin us right here in the damp grass. But just like before, I hold back. She’s either the biggest tease I’ve ever met, or she’s more nervous than her bold words let on.

She snatches the box of pastels from my hand and givesit a shake, breaking the moment just before it ignites. “Maybe you’ll be really good. It’ll be fun.”

I take it back, letting my fingertips glide along the back of her hand. Electricity crackles between us, charging the air, thickening it with something inevitable.

I set the oil pastels on the grass beside me. Because today, I have other plans. “Would you take a commission?”

Surprise fills her gaze. “A commission?”

I smooth hair off her shoulder. “As in paid work for an artist.”

“I know what it means.”

The way her body swells with pride is something I’d give my right hand to see again.

I raise my eyebrows in response, but in the pause between us where she enjoys the flattery, my heart pounds harder with what I’m about to ask.

“Maybe,” she replies. “What is it?”

My heart stills. This is a big fucking deal, but I’ve been thinking about it for the last few weeks and I want Kat to do this.

I rub my hands on my jeans because I’m surprisingly nervous to ask. “I’m getting a tattoo, and I want you to draw it.”

“Oh…” She pauses. “You want me to draw something for you to tattoo on yourself?”

This whole conversation is getting even harder, and yet with every step I take, I actually feel lighter.

I take a photo from my inside jacket pocket. “It’s my mom. She passed away almost eight months ago. I want a memorial tattoo.”

Kat’s jaw is slack. She blinks hard a few times. “That’s shitty…”

“Yeah. Cancer. It’s a bitch.”

Kat puts her hand on my arm; a soothing touch is better than any more words. There aren’t any, and Kat seems to understand that. We sit for a moment, staring out at the landscape that brought us here, both for different reasons, but offering the same space to breathe. I love that Kat doesn’t speak to avoid silence. She doesn’t say something generic to make herself feel useful in a time where nothing a person can say or do changes a damn thing.

We sit here. Like we have many times before, the cool breeze on our faces. My mom’s photo is pinched between my fingers as if she’s enjoying this moment with us. She was probably my age in the photo. Maybe she’d just met my dad.

Time always escapes you when you aren’t ready for it.

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