on his cheeks. Damn. How did I miss those before? They make his smile all the more charming, and I find myself staring for a moment, wishing I hadn’t seen the blasted things.
“Ha-ha,” I say mockingly, rolling my eyes.
“So, how’s the disposal been working?” He walks to the kitchen and begins sizing up the sink, moving dishes around to get a peek down the drain.
“It’s been good— no other problems.” I walk over to the kitchen and hoist myself up onto the counter to watch him work. He’d discovered that a peach pit was jammed in the flywheel the other day. It was an easy fix for him to remove the pit and get the blades moving again. I’m happy to see him stop by to double check and make sure it’s working properly. The old maintenance guy never followed up like this. Sometimes he didn’t show up at all when I needed him. Guess that explains why he’s the old maintenance guy.
“Glad to hear it.” He runs the disposal, then switches it off when he’s satisfied. “Anything else you need help with while I’m here? I won’t be back around for a few weeks, unless you need something else.” He leans a hand on the counter as he turns to face me, propping his other hand low on his waist. My gaze floats down to his arms, and curiosity gets the best of me. I have to ask.
“What do your tattoos mean?”
His brows lift for second at the change of subject and he follows my gaze, holding out his arms to take a look. “Hard to explain, really. They’re kind of personal.” He points to the expressive sleeve on his right forearm. It’s full of swirling, black Old English text that I can’t make out, and an arrangement of leaves and branches. A tree, I think. There are words carved into the wood of the trunk, but I can’t make those out, either. “This one is kind of my version of the tree of life. The text is just a combination of things that mean something to me. Song lyrics, quotes, old proverbs…mostly stuff about nature.”
“Oh, yeah?” I hop down from the counter and move closer to him to get a better look. As I lean in, I get a whiff of him. Pine and cinnamon. Like rich tree bark and the topping on a pumpkin spice latte. It brings all of my senses to life. “What does that part say?” I touch a line of text wrapping around the tree, tracing the words. I hear him swallow and feel the muscles in his arm flex.
“It’s, ah, it’s a part of this poem. By Lord Byron. ‘Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage.’” I don’t wait for him to read it to me. I can see it clearly now. The line mentions loving nature more, but not loving man any less.
“That’s beautiful,” I say, lifting my head when I feel his eyes on me. “I only have one tattoo.”
“Oh, really? Where is it?”
“Nowhere you can see.” I smile unabashedly and hold his gaze, liking the way he turns a little crimson when I indulge him with an eyebrow wiggle.
He laughs and shakes his head, sticking his hands in his pockets. “Like I said, ink is very personal.”
“I’d agree with that. I love yours. Who did your work?”
“This chick Tracy, over on Bainbridge Island. She owns this little shop downtown. She’s pretty rad. I won’t let anyone else color me up.”
“I’ll have to pay her a visit next time I want to get some work done.”
“You should. I’d be happy to hook you up.”
“Cool, thanks.”
He nods and hesitates for a second, settling on the decision to grab his tool box. “Well, looks like you’re all taken care of here. Guess I better be on my way.”
I watch him as he starts to make his way through the living room, allowing my eyes to travel the length of him as soon as his back is to me. The man has an ass to die for, narrow hips, and broad shoulders. The kind of shoulders girls like to hold on to. He can’t be much older than me, and he’s got no ring on his left finger. Not that that’s ever stopped me before.
I chew on my lip and follow him to the door to walk him out, stopping him when
“Ha-ha,” I say mockingly, rolling my eyes.
“So, how’s the disposal been working?” He walks to the kitchen and begins sizing up the sink, moving dishes around to get a peek down the drain.
“It’s been good— no other problems.” I walk over to the kitchen and hoist myself up onto the counter to watch him work. He’d discovered that a peach pit was jammed in the flywheel the other day. It was an easy fix for him to remove the pit and get the blades moving again. I’m happy to see him stop by to double check and make sure it’s working properly. The old maintenance guy never followed up like this. Sometimes he didn’t show up at all when I needed him. Guess that explains why he’s the old maintenance guy.
“Glad to hear it.” He runs the disposal, then switches it off when he’s satisfied. “Anything else you need help with while I’m here? I won’t be back around for a few weeks, unless you need something else.” He leans a hand on the counter as he turns to face me, propping his other hand low on his waist. My gaze floats down to his arms, and curiosity gets the best of me. I have to ask.
“What do your tattoos mean?”
His brows lift for second at the change of subject and he follows my gaze, holding out his arms to take a look. “Hard to explain, really. They’re kind of personal.” He points to the expressive sleeve on his right forearm. It’s full of swirling, black Old English text that I can’t make out, and an arrangement of leaves and branches. A tree, I think. There are words carved into the wood of the trunk, but I can’t make those out, either. “This one is kind of my version of the tree of life. The text is just a combination of things that mean something to me. Song lyrics, quotes, old proverbs…mostly stuff about nature.”
“Oh, yeah?” I hop down from the counter and move closer to him to get a better look. As I lean in, I get a whiff of him. Pine and cinnamon. Like rich tree bark and the topping on a pumpkin spice latte. It brings all of my senses to life. “What does that part say?” I touch a line of text wrapping around the tree, tracing the words. I hear him swallow and feel the muscles in his arm flex.
“It’s, ah, it’s a part of this poem. By Lord Byron. ‘Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage.’” I don’t wait for him to read it to me. I can see it clearly now. The line mentions loving nature more, but not loving man any less.
“That’s beautiful,” I say, lifting my head when I feel his eyes on me. “I only have one tattoo.”
“Oh, really? Where is it?”
“Nowhere you can see.” I smile unabashedly and hold his gaze, liking the way he turns a little crimson when I indulge him with an eyebrow wiggle.
He laughs and shakes his head, sticking his hands in his pockets. “Like I said, ink is very personal.”
“I’d agree with that. I love yours. Who did your work?”
“This chick Tracy, over on Bainbridge Island. She owns this little shop downtown. She’s pretty rad. I won’t let anyone else color me up.”
“I’ll have to pay her a visit next time I want to get some work done.”
“You should. I’d be happy to hook you up.”
“Cool, thanks.”
He nods and hesitates for a second, settling on the decision to grab his tool box. “Well, looks like you’re all taken care of here. Guess I better be on my way.”
I watch him as he starts to make his way through the living room, allowing my eyes to travel the length of him as soon as his back is to me. The man has an ass to die for, narrow hips, and broad shoulders. The kind of shoulders girls like to hold on to. He can’t be much older than me, and he’s got no ring on his left finger. Not that that’s ever stopped me before.
I chew on my lip and follow him to the door to walk him out, stopping him when
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