She blushes a pretty pink that defies her comment about liking me naked. “Orgasms are always good,” she says, releasing me as we enter the kitchen, “but I want you to tell me what all of your ink means.”
“My ink,” I repeat, when I’d expected her to want to know about my money, my success. Or even how I’m going to deal with Kingston. “That’s what you want to know about me?”
“Yes,” she says grabbing one of the takeout bags. “That’s what I want to know about you. Because every choice you made to ink your body has to tell a story.”
“It’s the story of my life, sweetheart,” I say, helping her unpack the food. “You’re right about that.”
“How old were you when you got your first tattoo?” she asks. “And before you answer, you’re okay with me popping these in the microwave, right?”
“Of course,” I answer, sitting down on a gray leather barstool. “And eighteen,” I say, replying to her first question. I watch her pop one of the takeout containers in to warm. “It’s a stopwatch that’s still on my right forearm in the middle of more ink.” I turn my arm and show her. “Pissed off my father which only made me like it more.”
“And it means what to you.”
“All things come in their own time. And that statement has meant many things to me in my life.” My eyes meet Harper’s. “Like us, sweetheart. It wasn’t our time six years ago. It is now.”
“All things come in their own time,” she repeats softly, her gaze sliding over both of my arms. “You only had one sleeve when I met you six years ago.”
“A lot has happened in six years.”
“For you,” she says. “I know it has.”
“Not for you?”
“I feel like I’ve done nothing but fight the same battle.” She gives a choked laugh. “You know that saying. The definition of stupid or insanity or whatever it is, is to keep doing the same thing and expecting a different result. You’re right. Six years was too long.” Pain stabs through her eyes but the microwave beeps and gives her an excuse to cut her stare. She looks away and pulls the first tray out, checking it and then replacing it with the second.
“This one is ready,” she says, walking to set it in front of me.
I drag her to me, between my legs, not about to let her comments go unanswered. “You didn’t make a mistake. There were times when I thought I left too soon and too easily.”
“You didn’t. You would never have been accepted.”
“I know that,” I say. “I knew that at the party. I didn’t know it during some of those years in the SEALs.”
“Yes, well as you said, six years makes me a damn slow learner.”
“I never said that and it’s clear that you stayed for your mother.” The microwave goes off again. “How about some of that wine?” I ask. “It’ll take the edge off.”
“Yes,” she agrees, “that would be good right about now.”
“Where are the glasses?”
“Cabinet by the sink to the left.”
I cup her head and kiss her and between the two of us, we sip wine and finish preparing the meal. This isn’t a familiar thing for me. I don’t do relationships. It’s not what I want and yet, with Harper I enjoy this time with her and the very domestic act of preparing a meal together, even a warmed-up meal, is somehow more intimate than being naked on the couch earlier.
“It’s chilly,” she says when we’ve finished all of our prep. “I can turn on the fireplace in the living room if we eat in there.”
A few minutes later we’re settled on the floor in front of her coffee table eating. “My God, I missed this place,” I say, the sauce and pasta coming together perfectly.
“It’s really wonderful,” she says. “I have a lot of favorite places around the area. North is one of the few places that has been here since you were here.”
We sit and chat about the neighborhood until we’re both done with our food. As we sit back and turn toward each other, she reaches out and catches my arm, tracing the rows of numbers randomly placed between a clock and a skull with an anchor.
“What do the numbers mean?”
“Numbers are how I process everything. If I’m thinking about anything, anything at all, there are numbers in my head.”
“Even me?”