Chapter Nine
Josie
I stared at my wrist for the tenth time since I’d gotten home. Maybe the twentieth. Definitely more than was normal.
The little ice cream cone sat on the inside of my wrist, wrapped in clear film that caught the light every time I moved. Three scoops stacked neatly on top of a waffle cone with tiny sparkles around it. It was small. Simple. And somehow it felt enormous.
I held my arm out in front of me and smiled. Then immediately frowned. Then smiled again.
I had a tattoo. A real tattoo.
At thirty-six years old, after years of thinking about it. After years of letting someone else’s opinion matter more than my own.
I had done it.
The thought should’ve been the only thing on my mind.
Instead... I flopped backward onto my couch and groaned into the ceiling, because apparently I was incapable of focusing on the important part.
Nope.
My brain wanted to replay the entire evening.
Starting with me standing outside Bad Habit like an idiot.
Then teasing me.
Then letting me into his world.
And finally... The kiss.
I squeezed my eyes shut. “Nope.” The word echoed around my apartment.
I opened my eyes again and the ceiling looked exactly the same.
Unfortunately.
Because I was still here.
Still thinking about it.
Still remembering exactly how it felt when Rome touched my wrist and asked if I trusted him.
I rolled onto my side and pressed my face into the couch cushion. This was ridiculous. It was a kiss. One kiss. People kissed all the time.
Entire reality television shows existed around kissing strangers. This wasn’t special.
Probably.
My stomach twisted. I sat up again and glared at my wrist. The tattoo looked innocent. Cute even. Not at all responsible for the emotional spiral I was currently experiencing.
“You started this,” I told it. The tattoo remained silent.
I pushed off the couch and headed for the bathroom. The light over the vanity flicked on, and I stood in front of the mirror and looked at myself.
Same brunette hair. Same blue eyes. Same round cheeks I’d spent too many years wishing were thinner. Same body. Same Josie.
Except, not exactly.
The tattoo changed something. Not physically. It wasn’t like I’d suddenly become edgy or mysterious because I had an ice cream cone permanently inked on my wrist.
But, I don’t know. It felt like proof.
Proof that I could make decisions for myself. Proof that I didn’t need permission anymore. Proof that the version of me who waited around for someone else to approve of my dreams was gone.
That part felt good. Really good. Which was why it irritated me that Rome kept sneaking into my thoughts.
I turned on the faucet and carefully washed around the tattoo.
His voice echoed in my head.
Keep it clean.
Thin layer of ointment.
Don’t scratch it.
I rolled my eyes. The man had given me instructions like I was a child. Granted, I probably needed them. I was already contemplating scratching around the edges because it itched.
I dried my hands and looked at my wrist again.
Then...
Without meaning to...
I remembered his hands.
Big.
Warm.
Steady.
A shiver ran down my spine.
I immediately frowned. “No.” Absolutely not. We were not shivering over a man. I pointed at myself in the mirror. “We’ve discussed this.”
Had we? Not really. Maybe we should.
I leaned against the counter and crossed my arms. Rome was attractive.
There. I admitted it. He was also funny. And kind.
Annoyingly kind, but that didn’t mean anything. He was probably like that with everyone.
I frowned. No. That wasn’t right.
He wasn’t nice to everyone.
He was sarcastic. Gruff. Intimidating.
But, he had to be good with people.
He was a tattoo artist and people trusted him.
People sat inches away from him for hours.
Of course he knew how to make someone comfortable.
Of course he was gentle.
Of course he asked questions.
Of course he looked people in the eyes.
The kiss... My chest tightened. The kiss. Okay, maybe not everyone got kissed. But maybe... Maybe he kissed women all the time?
I hated the thought instantly.
Rome was twenty-nine. Tattooed. Confident. Owned his own business. The man looked like he’d been carved by a woman with unrealistic expectations.
Women probably threw themselves at him. He probably had stories. Probably had women in and out of his life constantly.
The thought made my stomach hurt, which was ridiculous, because I had kissed him too.
I was women. Sort of. I groaned and pressed my hands to my face.
This was exactly why I had told myself I wasn’t going to date after the divorce. It was exhausting. One kiss and suddenly I was creating entire imaginary histories.
I dropped my hands. No. I wasn’t doing that. Rome hadn’t promised me anything. I hadn’t promised him anything. We were adults and it was one kiss.
One really good kiss.
I groaned again because now I was rating the kiss. This was going terribly.
I left the bathroom and headed for my bedroom.
The house was quiet. Comfortably quiet.
For months after the divorce, the silence had felt sharp.
Now it felt peaceful.
I liked my life. I liked my routines. I liked sleeping diagonally across the bed. I liked not wondering where someone was or why they hadn’t texted. I liked not shrinking myself to fit inside somebody else’s expectations.
I wasn’t giving that up.
Not for Rome.
Not for anyone.
I sat on the edge of the bed and looked down at my wrist again.
The tattoo really was perfect. Of course it was, Rome had done it. The man had confidence bordering on arrogance when it came to his work.
And the annoying part? He’d earned it.
I smiled. Just a little.
I immediately dropped my hand. Jesus, get it together. It wasn’t like we’d made out against the wall.
It had been simple.
Almost like he was asking a question and waiting for me to answer.
That part surprised me. Rome looked like the kind of man who took what he wanted. But he hadn’t, he’d waited. Given me room to back away, and for some reason that mattered.
A lot.
I slid under the blankets and turned off the lamp.
After Bruce, I’d promised myself I wouldn’t be stupid again and ignore red flags or make excuses. I wouldn’t lose myself trying to fit into someone else’s life.
Rome wasn’t asking me to. Hell, Rome hadn’t asked for anything. That should make this easier.
Instead, it made me nervous, because there was no pressure. No games. No pretending. Just Rome crossing Main Street every day. Eating ice cream. Bringing burgers. Holding my wrist like it was something precious.
I squeezed my eyes shut.
Rome was just the tattoo artist across the street who happened to be attractive. And kind. And kissed me in a way I couldn’t stop thinking about.
I groaned into my pillow. “This is going to be a disaster.”
The pillow offered no advice. I rolled onto my side and pulled the blanket up to my chin.
Tomorrow would be normal. I’d make sure of it. I would act like nothing had changed, because nothing had changed.
That was the story I told myself.
It was the story I held onto as my eyes drifted shut. And it was the story I repeated one last time before sleep finally claimed me.
The kiss meant nothing.
Which was why I thought about it forty-seven times before bed.