Page 15 of The War Revision
His cloudy sky-blue eyes are lighter under the sunlight, and I wonder what it’d feel like to run my hand between his silk-soft-looking hair. Fucking hell, what’s with the mushy-feely shit?
“Didn’t know there was a Greek restaurant so close to the shop,” I blurt out.
He hums. “Your shop is popular. I see many clients coming and going.”
“You almost sound surprised. Don’t like tattoos?” I ask him with a snort. I can already imagine his answer.
He cleans his mouth on the egg white napkin—fucking Jordzilla, I’m turning into a tablescaping expert—and seems to ponder his reply while looking at my inked neck, arms, and hands.
“I don’t dislike them, but I never found something that important I wanted it tattooed on my skin.”
I suspected he didn’t have any ink. He’s every tattoo artist’s dream. A blank canvas of lightly golden skin ready to get dirty. A shudder goes down my spine and goosebumps start spreading on my arms at the thought of using something other than ink on him.
“You’re a virgin.”
He chuckles. “I can assure you I haven’t been one in a long time.”
I smile at his words. Of course not, he’s too handsome and self-assured to be one. I meant his skin is untouched.
“Three types of people enter my shop. The first one, I call them the Rachel. They have only an idea of what tattoo they want, and trust me to put it on their skin. The second one, the Monica have a design already made and want me to ink an exact same copy—down to the small details.”
“And the third one?”
I smirk at him.
“The Chandler. They ask a bunch of questions and then run scared-shitless, never to be seen again.”
He laughs, amused, and I realize I’m still staring at him when the waitress leaves our orders on the table and I forget to flirt with her. Then the enticing smell of the food takes all my attention, and I dig in.
“You likeFriends,” he states, but I nod anyway.
“Frank forced Jordie and I to watch it almost every day.” I smile at the memory.
“Frank?”
“He took us in when we were young,” I keep it vague. People don’t usually want to hear about my horrid past. Cole is just being polite.
Or so I thought. He surprises me by asking, “Did he adopt you?”
“No. My fuck-up of a mother never let him,” I say bitterly, hoping to make it awkward for him and force him to change topic.
But does Cole ever do something I expect? He looks over at me with a sympathetic expression. I hate it.
“You and Jordan seem to have turned out pretty normal. And I use the term normal very loosely.”
“As normal as you can get from a drug-addicted, drunk mother and an absent father.” The following pregnant silence and Cole’s acute stare make me uncomfortable now. How the hell did we end up talking about this?
I shift the conversation onto something much more interesting. “This is the best thing I’ve ever eaten.” Seriously, what the fuck is in this? I keep voraciously eating my meal and lose myself in my enjoyment.
I think for a moment that he’ll call me on the change of subject, but surprisingly, he doesn’t. He slowly nods, and continues chewing, seemingly absentminded. Only after he swallows does he agrees, “Yes, it is.”
I shove another bite into my mouth, having no such compunction about talking around food. “So good.”
We eat in silence till I’m done and notice Cole has left some food in his plate.
“Are you going to leave that?” I ask him, pointing at his leftover.
“Why?”
