Page 71 of The Do-Over

“Hell no—we went with laser tag.”

“Studs.”

He started talking about his brother, sharing memories that made his voice crack while his eyes smiled, and I couldn’t get enough. He told story after story of the two of them, running around after Eric moved downtown, doing obnoxious things and texting each other immature memes. I was crying again, but this time it was because I was laughing so hard.

“So.” I sat up straighter. “Is your tattoo about Eric?”

“Yeah.” He looked down at my—his—jacket and put his hands on the front, pulling the top together a little more. It was a nurturing gesture that made me warmer than the coat itself. “It’s the exact match of what he had.”

“Exactly?”

“Yep.”

“That’s actually really cool. Did Dante do it?”

“Yep. He did Eric’s, and then he did mine.”

“Can I see it?”

He smiled a dirty smile. “I’d have to take off my shirt.”

“Oh, well, I’m sure you don’t want to,” I teased, pretending my cheeks weren’t suddenly on fire. “You’re probably ashamed of your marshmallow body, anyway.”

His eyes crinkled. “You really want to see my chest, don’t you, Hornby.”

“Don’t flatter yourself.” I gestured to my forearm and said, “I’m just super into tattoos. Obviously.”

“Yes, that’s right, you badass.”

“Just forget it.” I rolled my eyes dramatically and said, “I don’t want to see it anymore.”

He gave me a grin and stood. He had that ornery-little-boy look in his eyes—the one I imagined he’d worn every time he screwed around with his older brother—as he took off his coat and dropped it on the bench.

“It’s freezing, Nick—maybe—”

“If Emilie Hornby wants you to show her your tattoo,” he said, casually pulling the back of his sweater over his head like he was changing alone in his room and it wasn’t freaking freezing outside in the middle of the city, “you show her.”

I got up, laughing as he stood there with his sweater in his hand.

Stepping closer, I forced my eyes to stay trained on his tattoo, which was some kind of Celtic pattern that wound up his bicep and twisted around his shoulder.

I set my fingers on his skin and let them glide over the inked lines, my eyes never daring to look up at him. He was all lean muscles under tight skin, and it felt more like we were alone in the dark than exposed on the roof as my hands moved over him.

He groaned. “Okay—stop. This was a terrible idea.”

I looked up at his face and his eyes were hot. I managed to nod and take back my hands, and I watched as he put his sweater back on, and then his jacket. I started to wonder if I should feel awkward for feeling him up as he zipped his coat, but then he said, “I gotta hand it to you, Hornby—the DONC was one hell of a good idea.”

That dissolved any tension that might’ve been building, and I grinned. I said, “Okay. I have an idea of what we can do next, and it’s either great or terrible.”

“So probably terrible.”

“Probably.” I took a few steps away from him, pacing as I tried pitching it in a way that would make him see its merit. “But since it’s the one-year anniversary of Eric’s death and he’s obviously on your mind, what if we, like, pay him tribute?”

“Emilie.”

“No—hear me out.” I kept walking, taking steps back and forth to keep warm. “It sounds like you guys always had a blast in the city, like it was the setting for a lot of your best memories. So, what if we revisit some of those activities?”

He opened his mouth to speak, but I ran over and set my hand on top of it. “Let me finish, Stark.”

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