Page 122 of Messy Strokes (Wrecked Roommates)

Jos’s mouth stretches into a grin when he sees us. “Fancy seeing you again.”

“Hi.” I wave my hand back and forth.

He quirks his brow at Milo. “You know you don’t get the money if you’re the one to give it to her, right?”

“I remember the rules, which are bullshit, by the way,” Milo adds as he walks over to his booth. “Besides, she won’t let anyone else give her ink unless it’s me. Right, Mads?”

Jos scratches at his jaw and turns to me. “Is that how it is?”

“Apparently,” I return.

“So, if I offered––”

“Back off, old man. She’s mine,” Milo interrupts, though I have a feeling he’s only half-kidding.

Again, Jos chuckles as he raises his hands in surrender. “Always figured you’d be an overprotective asshole. Just wanted to make sure. I see you brought your baby, though. Want me to stick around and watch her while you get to work?”

“Oh, you don’t have to,” I reply, taking in his weathered face and tired eyes. He looks exhausted.

“Humor me, Miss Walker. The only thing I have waiting for me at home is a cold beer andM*A*S*Hreruns. Let me stick around, will ya?”

He reaches for the car seat, but Milo stops him. “Here. Let me get her out for you.”

After untangling her tiny arms from the nylon straps, he tosses her giraffe blankie over his shoulder and grabs her favorite bubblegum pink binkie out of the diaper bag.

“She ate before we came, so she should be happy for a while. If she gets sad, she likes it when you wrap her up like a burrito and rock her back and forth but keep her sitting up like this.” Milo shows him exactly how she likes to be held with her back to his chest, his arm wrapped beneath her arms but still around her torso, and her feet facing away from him. “She likes it more than when she’s laying down.”

“She does?” Jos studies Milo’s movements carefully as if he’s mentally taking notes.

“Yeah.” Milo hands Penny to his boss. “She doesn’t like it when she’s looking up at the ceiling. She likes looking out.”

Jos turns me. “For real?”

“Apparently.”

With a sarcastic salute, he replies, “Alrighty, then. We’ll be hanging out in the breakroom. Oh. I don’t do diapers. Good luck.”

When the breakroom door closes behind us, I tell Milo, “He’s kind of adorable.”

“Yeah, he’s all right,” Milo mutters, giving me his back and rummaging through the small cabinet in his workspace. “Take a seat. I’ll grab the stencil.”

“You already have a stencil for it?”

“Yeah.”

“How?” I give him a pointed look. “You’re not giving me a boring, generic tattoo, right?”

Stencil in hand, he turns back to me and motions to the cushioned seat. “You really think I’d do that to you?”

I shrug one shoulder and bat my eyelashes back at him. “You tell me.”

“Smart-ass,” he grunts. “This one’s only for you. Take off your shirt, turn around, and lay face down on the table.”

“Wait.” My heels dig into the ground, and I cross my arms. “You’re not going to show me what it is first?”

Shaking his head, he sets the stencil back down, blocking it with his body, and grabs a pair of disposable gloves from the counter. The latex snaps as he pulls them into place. “Chop, chop, Mads.”

“But––”

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