Page 51 of Stepping Up to the Plate

“‘Lola’s Try List.’ Original title, baby,” he teases after I pull it up on my laptop. I shoot him a glare which draws a laugh from him. I love it when he’s relaxed and carefree like this. I wish he would do it more often instead of stressing over everyone else’s problems.

“Let’s see here: adopt a dog, volunteer with a girls-focused charity, make my own jewelry, go to a sex club?” he raises his eyebrow at me. “Haven’t you already done that one?”

Oh shit. I forgot about that one. Some of those were submitted and voted on by my followers.

“Someone on social media added that,” I rush out. “And while technically I have gone, I didn’t do much while there. I’m not sure it counts. Is that the one you want to do?”

“Oh, I absolutely want to do it. In fact, you better not complete this one without me. But I don’t think it’s the right choice for today. Unless you want to?” he asks hesitantly.

“I don’t think I’m up to that yet.”

He nods and keeps reading. “Goat yoga, pottery class, fish pedicure.” He makes a puzzled face at that suggestion but keeps reading. “Sing karaoke with a live band, make macaroons… bingo. I got it.”

“You want to make macaroons?”

“Nope,” he answers, peering into my eyes. “You, my sweet girl, are getting a tattoo.”

“What?” I squeak. “Today?”

“Oh yeah. If you’re up for it. It will probably take a few hours and I’ve got plenty of time to sit with you while it happens and hold your hand.”

“Are you going to get one?”

“I’ve considered it, but never had anything worth marking myself permanently over. Besides, this is about you, not me,” he states. “And lucky for you, I have the number of the guy who did Declan and Cole’s tattoos. He is the most sought-after tattoo artist in the city, but I’m sure he could get us in as a favor. Do you know what you want?”

“I have a general idea. I was hoping the artist could help finish the design.”

An hour later I find myself sitting in a chair at a high-end tattoo shop with Zade applying a stencil to my skin. The artist in question looks exactly how you expect him to. Almost every visible inch of his skin is covered in ink and he has an eyebrow and tongue piercing. I can’t help but wonder if he has any others…

Before we left, Brady and I talked about the placement of my tattoo. I decided I wanted it on my upper ribs, that way I could hide it most of the time but still show it to other people. He insisted I wear a deep cut bralette that was only attached by a string at the bottom to keep the tattoo artist from seeing too much of my boobs. I tried to protest, but it was clear he wasn't going to budge on it.

As he finishes applying the design, Zade instructs me to lay on my side. When I do, I find Brady there sitting in a chair with a smile on his face. “You ready for this?”

“As ready as I can be,” I declare with a shaky voice.

“You’re going to do great,” Zade reassures me. “Women sit way better for tattoos than men. Plus, you’ve got this big lug here to hold your hand and I bet his can take quite the squeeze.” The comment makes me giggle and eases some of my nerves. “Okay, let’s do this.”

“Atta girl,” he responds, earning him a glare from Brady that he smirks at. Brady may not appreciate Zade’s flirty personality, but it puts me at ease. It is clear he knows it won’t lead anywhere.

For the next two hours, Brady asks me random questions to try to distract me from the needle running over my skin. “If you were a dog, what breed do you think you would be?” he asks.

“That’s a tough one. You go first,” I say.

“Alright, I think I would probably be a Golden Retriever. That’s what all those chick books you read talk about, right?”

I try to stifle the giggle that wants to slip out but can’t. Zade doesn’t even try to hide his amusement.

“What?” Brady defends. “I’m loyal, active, and nice to everyone. I’ve been called a Golden Retriever on more than one occasion.”

We both laugh harder and then Zade speaks, “I’ve only been around you a handful of times, dude, but you do not have Golden Retriever energy. They’re happy-go-lucky. You’ve got Doberman energy, if anything. You may be chill, but you’re intense. You’ve glared at me at least a dozen times since you’ve been here.”

“That’s because she keeps wincing,” Brady grits.

“He isn’t a Doberman,” I chide, making Brady soften. “But you aren’t a Golden Retriever, either.” His expression drops a bit as I contemplate. “You’re a German Shepard – still cuddly and playful, but confident, protective, and always on alert.”

“I can live with that,” he concedes.

“Glad we got that settled,” Zade remarks with the snap of his gloves, “Because we’re all done here.”

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