Page 22 of The Fake Out

Her eyebrow arched in confusion.

“I moved back to Philly.”

Her mouth formed a little ‘O’ in understanding, and it was taking everything in me to not think of it doing something else.

Shit. I was horny. Maybe this was a bad idea.

“Wait, I thought your dad said I was off-limits?” she asked.

“He’ll get over it. He likes you, but he’ll definitely give me shit for you being too good for me.”

“Me?” she asked, her voice hitching up in surprise. “Not his hot, successful pro-athlete, son? I’m the mess of the lady that gets too drunk at his bar.”

I grimaced. “I doubt my dad thinks I’m hot, V.”

She laughed. “Why not? You look just like him.”

I frowned at her. “What?”

She shrugged. “What? Your dad’s a total silver fox. Sorry, I’m not sorry.”

“Ew, gross!”

She stared intently at my chest. “Do you want to come inside and see what we can do about the cover-up?”

I nodded. “Please, help me.”

She laughed. “Come on, hockey boy. Let’s discuss it, and I’ll think of some ideas.”

That’s how I ended up in her chair, but not with her machine turned on. Instead, she asked me questions and sketched while we talked about ideas for the cover-up. Every once in a while, her ex would glance over at us, and I’d give him a small wave, and she’d glare at him. I may have done the ‘fake boyfriend’ thing of grabbing her hand and rubbing my thumb over the back of her palm to comfort her. It calmed her down, especially if I kissed the back of it.

“Do you like any of these ideas?” she asked, exasperated because I couldn’t make up my mind.

“Sorry, I’m indecisive today,” I offered, sincerely this time.

“What about something hockey related?” she suggested.

I pointed at the hockey sticks on the inside of my wrist. “I think I have that covered.”

She sighed. “What about a maple leaf? That would be meaningful, right? Because your mom was Canadian?”

I frowned at her. “How did you know that?”

“Hal told me,” she explained and went back to sketching.

“He talked about my mom?”

He never talked about Mom. Never ever. Not since she died, and her death broke him apart, leaving the rest of us fending for ourselves.

She nodded and hummed to herself while she worked. “It was during my mental breakdown after that asshole left. I think he wanted to tell me he understood loss and sorrow.” She checked her watch. “Blaise, I have another client soon, but how about you think about what you want, and we’ll set up a time to do the piece, okay?”

I nodded and put my t-shirt back on. Her ex was staring again, so I bent down and kissed her goodbye, rubbing my thumb against her cheek. “Call me later?” I whispered.

“I don’t have your number,” she whispered back.

I slid a piece of paper into her hand. “Call me, okay?”

She nodded as if in a trance. I walked out of the tattoo parlor, not sure what I was doing. By the time I got back to my car, my phone buzzed with a text message.