Page 7

“Really? I mean you’re hot, but you’re not all stuck up like I expected a Paris and Milan model would be.”

“Former model,” I corrected him with a smile. “One day I was crossing the street on the Upper East Side, headed to a lunch meeting to be the new face of Chanel when a fucking cab jumped the curb and plowed right into me and nine other people. I took the brunt of the hit, leaving my left leg shattered in multiple places and resulting in a limp that pretty much ended my career.” I let out a long, slow breath, my gaze fixed on the black and white tiled floor.

“Shit, what about like magazines and shit? Plenty of models don’t have to walk.” He frowned and in that moment, I liked Tate a lot more than I realized.

“You’d think that, wouldn’t you?” But like me, he would have been wrong too. I lifted up the wide-leg black linen pants I wore until the whole scar — from the middle of my calf all the way up to my hip — all twenty-one inches of it, was exposed to his gaze. “I want to, not necessarily cover it but …” I trailed off, not sure how to explain it.

“Decorate it?”

I smiled. “Sure, let’s go with that.”

He nodded, letting out a breath of relief, probably since he hadn’t been expecting such a show of emotion from me. “Okay. First, what do you need? A hug? A drink? A primal scream therapy session?”

“If I say yes to all three?”

“I’m in. Always up for two out of three of those.” When he smiled like that, Tate looked like a little boy, so light and carefree. Such a contrast from the shadows he constantly wore.

“Not much of a hugger?”

He shook his head and stood. “Look at these, smartass.”

I did, taking a look at the various designs. Some were vines done in a Celtic style, others were thorny vines with roses that hadn’t yet bloomed and a few others were similar in theme. “This is beautiful,” I said out loud as I took in the long peacock feathers.

“Take this,” he said gruffly to cover up the sweet gesture of him bringing me a drink.

“Thanks, Golden Boy.”

He smirked but bit back whatever comment was on the tip of his tongue. “You like the feathers?”

“I do, but I’m not sure how that can work with all this,” I told him, gesturing to my leg.

Tate sat on the stool and motioned to my leg, which I laid across his lap. “I’m a fucking pro. Peacock feathers are long so we can start here,” the pad of his finger began two inches below where the scar started, and I got goose bumps at his touch. “And they can fan up to here,” he stopped at my hip. “What do you think?”

“You’re being very not weird about this, Tate.”

He let out an unamused laugh. “I’ve seen a lot worse than a long skinny scar on a great pair of legs. Honestly, your legs are more distracting than the scar.”

A laugh bubbled up out of me. “That’s probably the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me.”

“That’s me,” he rolled his eyes. “Sweetest motherfucker around.”

“Don’t sell yourself short, Golden Boy. You’d be surprised at the shit people say to me.” I took the drink and then, feeling uncomfortable, changed the subject. “How long will this take?”

“I could do it in one session if you’re okay with that, otherwise it’ll take two, about four hours each.”

“Four hours! Each? Is this surgery?”

“Not quite, but it is art.”

Right. “And art takes time. Got it. Now I have another question and I need you to promise you won’t judge me.”

“You wanna know how bad it hurts?”

I shook my head. “Yes and no. I want to know if it will hurt when you go over the scar tissue.”

“Shit, of course. It depends on how fresh the scars are, Teddy.”

To me they always felt brand new, like it happened last week, not three years ago. “Well, I guess we’ll find out, won’t we?”