“I still can’t get over how good these are.” Sam opened the magazine again on her lap, running careful fingers over the images of Nicky’s tattooed arms. “You have such a gift.” She looked up at me. “Can I see some of your other stuff?”
I motioned toward the cabinet where I kept my sketchbook and odds and ends. “Sure, look in there.”
Sam didn’t waste a second, settling cross-legged on the floor as she pulled the cabinet open and started eagerly sorting through the sketches, the tattoos not yet rendered, the tiny paintings I sometimes worked on during slow days at the shop. As I worked, cleaning my space, fixing a machine, sorting through some new supplies, I glanced over at her every so often, absorbing every fine detail of her beautiful face as she immersed herself in my art. I loved how one eyebrow crinkled when she concentrated especially hard, how she wound a strand of hair around a finger and got lost in her thoughts.
She belongs in a painting, I thought to myself, and my heart pulsed in response. George was right—I really was different. And it was all because of her.
“Oh, I love this one,” I heard her exclaim. I looked over to see a single sheet of sketchbook paper in her fingertips. She turned it around to show me what she’d plucked out of the pile.
It was the sketch I completed weeks before, of the yarn, knitting needles and heart. Just hours before I met Sam at the craft store. Sam pulling it from my vast pile—it felt so perfect that I couldn’t stop the laugh that bubbled out of me.
“I did that one the day I met you.” I scooted closer and looked at it. It was good—it had balance and texture, and someone would probably want it one day. But there was only one person I would ever consider giving it to.
“I would ink that as a tattoo for you,” I said. “If you wanted.”
Sam grimaced, but I held up a hand. “Just—trust me, okay? I know that you don’t get along with needles, but I swear, we could figure it out. For you, I would pull out all the stops.” I paused. “But only if you wanted to.”
She held the drawing up in front of her, chewing on her lower lip thoughtfully before she carefully set it down again. “It’s not that I would never want one—and of course you could figure it out. It’s just a little bit cliché to get a tattoo from a new—” she cut off, her cheeks reddening.
“Boyfriend,” I supplied, smiling broadly. “I’m your boyfriend, I think. Don’t you?”
She was quiet for a second as she turned it over in her mind before she looked up at me, a smile lighting her face. “Yeah, I think you check all the boxes.” Her grin widened. “You’re definitely the cutest boyfriend I’ve ever had.”
I eased myself off the stool and settled on the floor next to her, winding an arm around her shoulders to pull her in for a soft kiss. “You’re the most gorgeous girlfriend I’ve ever had.” I kissed her again. “And the most talented, the most interesting, probably the most anxious—”
She kissed me this time, and the thoughts drained from my head as her tongue swept into my mouth, tangling with mine in a brief, but still achingly sensual dance. When we pulled apart, I heaved a sigh and pressed my forehead to hers.
“I haven’t done this in a while,” I admitted to her. I reached out and took one of her hands in mine. During our late-night conversations, I’d told her about my most recent ex. About the way alcohol had tainted so many of my relationships in the past. “Had a girlfriend, that is. This is my first relationship since I started recovery, and I wasn’t, like, great at them before that. So I might be a little bit rusty, okay?”
“You’re doing great so far.” She brushed a hand over my stubbled cheek. “I’m crazy about you, Ian.”
“And I’m crazy about you, too.” I pressed a kiss to her temple before I reached over to pick up the sketch, sliding it safely back into a shelf. “And when you’re ready for this, it’s waiting for you, okay?”
She chuckled. “I’ll remember that.”
I settled back down next to her. “I have another question,” I started.
Sam reached out and pulled another tattoo sketch from the pile—a stylized horse this time—studying it with avid interest. “What’s that?”
I swallowed. George had probably already called my mom to tell her the second he walked out of Angelo’s—I didn’t doubt that she was already waiting on a call from me. “So, do you like Greek food?”