Page 87 of Cowboy

I think for a moment. "Enya?"

"That's the one." Tank takes another long swig of his beer. "We hooked up last weekend."

"And?" I prompt when he doesn't continue.

"And I can't stop thinking about her. Which is fucked up, because I'm pretty sure she hates my guts."

I can't help but laugh. "Why would she hate you?"

Tank rubs the back of his neck awkwardly. "I might have, uh, called her the wrong name. At a critical moment."

"Jesus Christ," I groan. "Tell me you didn't."

"In my defense, they sound alike! Enya, Emma... easy mistake."

I shake my head, torn between amusement and second-hand embarrassment. "You're a disaster, you know that?"

"Yeah, yeah," he mutters. "But seriously, what do I do? I really like this girl."

"Grovel," I suggest. "Apologize profusely. Maybe send flowers. Then apologize again."

Tank looks thoughtful. "Grovel, huh? I could do that."

Before I can offer more advice, Caoimhe appears at my side, slipping her arm through mine. "What are you boys plotting over here?" she asks, her eyes dancing with mischief.

"Tank's love life," I tell her. "Or lack thereof."

"Ah," she says knowingly. "The blonde from Callie's?"

Tank gapes at her. "How did you?—"

"Grá told me," Caoimhe explains with a shrug. "Small club, big gossip."

Tank groans, dropping his head into his hands. "Is there anyone who doesn't know?"

"Probably not," I say cheerfully. "Best just own it at this point."

Caoimhe tugs at my arm. "Can I steal my husband for a minute?"

Tank waves us off. "Go. Leave me to my shame."

Caoimhe leads me toward the back of the clubhouse, away from the main crowd. "Saoirse is getting tired," she tells me. "Grá said she's happy to take her home with the twins. They're having a sleepover."

"And us?" I ask, pulling her closer.

A slow smile spreads across her face. "I thought we could have our own private celebration."

"What are we celebrating?"

Her smile widens. "One year since you asked me to marry you. One year since we became a family officially."

I hadn't realized the date, but she's right. It was exactly a year ago that I gave her those adoption papers and slid that ring onto her finger. "Best decision I ever made," I tell her, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

"I have something for you," she says, a hint of nervousness entering her voice. "A surprise."

"Oh?" I raise an eyebrow. "What kind of surprise?"

She glances around to make sure no one's watching, then lifts the hem of her shirt just enough to reveal her hipbone. There, in fresh black ink, is a small, intricate design: a Celtic knot with three intertwined hearts.