Page 107 of Almost Rotten

There’s no sense in keeping them from her now. I’m shocked, really, that she hasn’t spotted them already.

“You’re sure you want to see?” I ask as I bring a hand to my belt buckle.

She tracks the movement, gasps, then giggles. “Are you serious right now?”

The laugh I let out isn’t the nervous sort. I’m actually amused. I look over my shoulder to ensure we’re alone before I unbutton my pants.

“I lost a bet,” I explain as I unzip my fly.

With zero finesse, I adjust my dick so I can show her what she wants to see. Then I roll down my waistband, taking my boxers down with it, and reveal my one and only—okay, technically it’s four—tattoo.

She drops into a squat, studying the skin, then snaps her head up.

“You lost a bet that required you to get four little bees tattooed on your hip?”

Yes. Yes I did.

“That was the deal.”

Balancing on her toes, she brings a finger to the ink, hovering it an inch from my skin, and looks up, silently seeking permission.

I nod.

When those delicate fingers brush over the bees, electricity zings through my limbs and strikes deep in my core.

“They’re beautiful,” she murmurs, her breath caressing the inked skin. “Although they are a little girly.” With another giggle, she rises to her feet. “Was the bet with your wife?”

She says it so casually. Like she’s not scared of the shape or the size of my grief.

That makes one of us.

Eyes drifting closed, I strike the melancholy from my mind.

“It was,” I answer as I button my pants.

Turning, she loops her fingers through the metal rungs of the fence again. When she smiles at me over her shoulder, I sidle up to the edge and stand beside her.

She takes my hand and gives it a squeeze. “If you want to tell me, I’d love to know the story.”

It’s a bold ask. Not for the first time, I admire her bravery.

As I consider my options, silence looms.

She doesn’t shy away, though. She squeezes my hand twice and says, “You don’t have to.”

I turn to face her and pull her a little closer. “I know I don’t. But I think I want to share it with you.”

As if the gravity of the moment weighs on her, she slides down to a sitting position and crosses her legs.

Less gracefully, I join her, my leg brushing hers before I recapture her hand.

“Meg and I were both competitive by nature. Every year, we’d strive to see who could save the most bees,” I explain. “Over time, our competition grew more serious. Four years ago, we placed a wager. We may or may not have been drunk when we agreed to the terms. The person who lost had to get a tattoo of the other’s choosing.”

I shake my head. The termcompetitivedoesn’t begin to describe Meg’s driven nature. I should have known from the start I’d lose.

The space Sawyer gives me when I’m silent for a moment is a relief. I’m not sure I could get through this if I had to keep gauging her reaction or walk on eggshells. She’s an excellent listener, which makes this a hell of a lot easier than I thought it would be.

“I mentioned before that people around town know to call us when they have bee problems.”