Authors: Meghan March
“We have a problem here, Lee?” A tall blond man dressed like a hippy surf bum, except for the tattoos covering nearly every inch of exposed skin from his neck to his wrists, sauntered out of the back room. He stopped next to
and wrapped an arm around her, pulling her into him. The gesture was so possessive that even my drunk ass couldn’t miss it. I dropped her wrist.
“No problem. Just wanted to know her name.”
He raised an eyebrow. Under the ink, he was still the punk who’d been two grades behind me and had gotten expelled from our prep school for hot-boxing the athletic director’s office. If I recalled correctly, he’d ended up in military school after that stunt. Constantine Leahy. Well, fuck.
“It’s fine, Con. I’m good. He was just leaving.” A second dismissal. And it blew.
Con looked at me, his eyes not giving anything away. He glanced down to the tattoo on the inside of my forearm. “We touch up work for vets for free. Come on back anytime—before you start tipping ‘em back.” He jerked a chin toward the sign. I stared at his hand curling around her waist. It was too familiar to be an act. They looked like a perfect couple. All ink and fuck you attitudes.
“Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.” I turned and walked away. I told myself it was for the best. She wasn’t for me. But those eyes …