Page 110 of Show Me How
Millie hums, and I debate looking at her before turning the idea down. “When was the last time?”
“Jesus, you’re like a hound with a scent.”
“I’m curious!”
“Yeah, I know you are.”
“Just tell me.”
“Seven years ago. When the shop had just started to get really big,” I grit out, abandoning the camera on the metal cart.
“So, that’s why it was complicated, then.”
I let loose a low laugh before turning on my stool. Millie’s got this know-it-all look on her face that should piss me off more than it turns me on, but today’s been so ass backward I just accept the latter.
“You think you know everything, hmm?”
“I know more than you think I do.”
“All because of your books?”
“Are you familiar with early 2000s rom-coms?”
I let my head fall forward and blow out a breath. “So it’s not just books, then.”
“Of course it isn’t. I grew up sneaking DVDs into my room and staying up at night watching the classics. By the time I was sixteen, I knew all the ways I wanted a guy to prove how much I meant to him. How I wanted him to fight for me when he did what all men do and put his foot in his mouth. I combattedmy lack of real-life dating experience with movies that made me forget aboutreality.”
I lean forward, spreading my knees. Millie watches me shift around, clearly trying to get comfortable beneath the weight of her supposed expectations. Knowing she has standards when it comes to men is as admirable as it is intimidating. My confidence takes a blow when I wonder to myself whether I’d be able to ever meet them. But it wouldn’t matter.
She’s. Leaving.
“There are things a fictional man from one of your books or movies would never think to give you.”
Her eyes sparkle. Fucking sparkle like sapphires. “Like what?”
“You need examples?”
“I want them. Prove your point to me, Mr. Arrogant.”
My laugh is scared, cracking in the middle. Standing from my stool, I let myself take a risk. I don’t bother looking at Millie before walking toward the leather chair seated in front of the studio’s big window, pulling my rolling cart of supplies behind me. Her eyes pierce into my side as she watches me, staying quiet.
“Print your logo out on a stencil,” I order softly.
“My logo?”
“The one you’ve drawn for me. Print it out and bring it over.”
She doesn’t move. “Am I getting a tattoo?”
“No.”
By the time her footsteps finally hit the floor, I’m wrapping the tattoo machine. The printer kicks up soon after, and I don’t need to look toward the back of the studio to know she’s doing it correctly. She’s been printing a dozen stencils a day for the last week.
“Now what?” she asks on her way back.
“Now, I’m going to sit on the chair, and you’re going to tattoo that fucking logo of ours on my chest.”
Her heels scuff the floor. “You’re joking.”
