Page 67 of Catching Trouble

“You’re cold,” he whispered, drawing me closer. With a growl, he wrapped his arms around me, his breath brushing through my hair.

Call me incorrigible, but I hugged him back. I sank into his heat—into the solid press of his body, the dark blue of his tattoos dancing in my vision.

My shivering subsided and then, when I moved my fingers over his skin, tracing the pictures inked on the inside of his forearm, he didn’t stop me.

With a sigh, I followed the curve of a fish, the loop of a line, and the wave pattern beneath his wrist. “Did you get these when you were younger?”

He nodded, jaw tight.

“What do they mean? I always thought of tattoos like a notebook or a journal. Like a mark of where your life was at the time you got them. I’vewondered if I should get one.”

“Don’t.” Maxime’s guttural voice rolled around my brain.

“Don’t what?”

He paused, running his eyes over me. “You don’t need any decoration. You’re already exactly how I want you.”

Usually, I would’ve resented someone telling me what I should do. Instead, my stomach knotted in the most delicious way, and I had an overwhelming urge to touch him.

“I don’t believe you.”

He traced me with a slow look. “What do you mean?”

“Your tattoos. I refuse to believe they’re nothing.” I brought my fingertips to an octopus on this corded forearm. “This one, for example. This one tells me a lot about you.”

He raised one of his thick eyebrows.

I smiled. “No really. I think you got this because you’re a hugger. And you’re smart. And when life gets tough, you disappear in a cloud of ink.” I wiggled my eyebrows at him. “Very dramatic.”

Maxime huffed. “I don’t think anyone’s ever described me as a hugger.”

A shame, really. I had a feeling he’d be exceptionally good at it. Dare I point out that, perched in his lap with his arms around me, we were about a millimetre from a very legitimate cuddle?

“Okay, then,” I said, drawing my fingers further up his arm. There, his skin bore the picture of a Mer-lion, mid-roar. “Now, this one is definitely giving me BDE.”

Maxime looked at me like I’d spoken in another language.

I curled my lips into a smile. “Big…” In place of the D, I pointed towards his groin. “Energy.”

Maxime chuckled, and the sound slipped around my heart like a glove.

“No, really. If not that, then this it’s dedicated to your childhood pet. You seem to get on with Bean. You two have a bit of a bromance going on. Maybe it’s commemorating your favourite cat.”

“I never had a cat,” Maxime ground out, shifting a little under me as the boat shifted under a powerful gust of wind. “I wasn’t allowed a pet.”

My chest tugged. Maybe that was why he was so reluctant to let Sophie care for Bean. “Fine, then.” I traced a line further up his arm, to his bicep, running my fingertips over the anchor inked into his skin. “This is a true classic. It’s giving me Popeye vibes.”

Maxime grunted a laugh.

They must have Popeye cartoons in France, too. I moved my hand, gripping the curve of his muscle, giving it a gentle squeeze. I raised one eyebrow, looking up at him. “Someone’s been eating their spinach.” I lifted his arm, pretending to check behind his shoulder.

“What’re you doing?”

I dropped it again, keeping my hand on his skin, grinning like the devil. “Don’t panic. I was just wondering where you keep your pipe.”

Next, I trailed my hand to his shoulder and the sailing ship inked there. “This? This is from your short stint as a pirate. I can picture you, cutlass in hand, beard blowing in the wind.”

Maxime smiled. “Beard?”