Page 77 of Inking the Billionaire

We like sitting in the living room and working together.

Even if we’re not talking, it gives a chance for the love to rise in the air, to whelm in every silent gesture.

My husband is shirtless. When he stands to walk from our cluttered living room toward the kitchen, I catch sight of his tattoo, the one I did, fading in amongst all the rest, completing the artwork the same way he and I complete each other.

He returns, placing a glass of chocolate milk on the table near me.

I offer him a smile, and he returns to his laptop.

It’s moments like these that truly communicate love, the simple joy of being in each other’s company, of a drink offered without asking.

I continue sketching a large love with my current client’s wife’s name on it, adding all the specific flourishes he asked for. It’s an early-stage premise, something to send to the client.

It makes me think of the sketches I sent to my man that started all this.

“What are you smiling about?” Silas says, closing his laptop and walking over.

He sits next to me on the floor where I am because it gives my lower back a break from the pregnancy pangs.

I sink gratefully into his embrace when he wraps his arm around me, hugging me and laying a gentle kiss on the top of my head.

“Are you thinking about the wedding?

I smile. We were married a month ago and returned from our honeymoon two weeks ago.

The wedding was beautiful, especially with Dad walking me down the aisle, handing me to his best friend without any awkwardness or hate or resentment, without anything other than love emanating from him, from everybody.

“It was amazing,” I tell him, kissing his shoulder, one hand resting on my belly and the other holding my husband’s. “But no, I was thinking about howthisis what love is.”

“Just me and you in our messy living room.”

I grin, looking around at the boxes. We’re going to unpack tomorrow properly. It’s our second night in our new home.

“That’s it,” I murmur. “It’s….”

I cut off when I feel the little bump moving against my hand. My belly is shifting.

“Um, Silas,” I say, voice rising with unstoppable excitement.

“Is our little tattooist moving?” Silas says, voice rising just like mine.

I grin at the nickname he’s given to our unborn baby.

There’s no need to answer because soon my husband’s hand is on my belly, his lips spreading into a warm smile when he feels the kicking.

I place my hand on top of his, closing my eyes and tattooing this moment into my memory forever.

EPILOGUE

ONE YEAR LATER

Silas

“She istooprecious,” Giorgia says, clasping her hands as I walk to the desk with Everly in the chest harness.

Our daughter has her earmuffs on in case the studio noise disturbs her. It’s like the nickname I gave her when she was still our hyperactive bump – our little tattooist – is sticking, and she feels as if she belongs here.

“How’s the prodigy doing?” I ask.

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