Page 125 of Perfect Assumption

“How does it look?” Angie asks anxiously.

“Remarkable,” I reassure her.

“That’s the only kind of work I do,” Kitty says cockily. Becks’s favorite tattoo artist is doing this tiny design as a favor to him.

The heart Angie’s having tattooed on her back where she bruised from her attack eleven years ago is being replaced with something much more inspirational—a mash-up of the lyrics of Erzulie’s new number one single and words that each of her “family” chose to remind her of how far she’s come along her personal journey:

Sula:Resilient

Carys:Trustworthy

David:Confident

Becks:Appreciative

And mine:Fearless

I debated love, but once I knew the lyrics of Erzulie’s single was being used to bind all of our words together in a heart, I knew I didn’t need to. It would have been redundant. I lean closer to read them as Kitty finishes the final “e” in my word.You will survive if you keep love alive.

“It’s like the song was written for us,” Angie murmurs. She holds out her hand straight.

I squat in front of her. “Maybe it was.”

Angie’s lips curve upward. I’m just about to lean forward and press mine against them when Kitty announces, “Done. Angie, do you want to see it before I seal it up?”

Angie leaps up from her prone position and follows Kitty to the full-length mirror. Taking another in her hand, she lifts it up and studies her back from every angle. “It’s perfect.”

“No,” I counter softly. “That’s you.”

Angie’s eyes promise me the world, and I’m going to hold her to it.

And then I’m humbled to a peasant when Angie leans over to hug Kitty and says, “Thank you. Now, when I see that spot, all I’ll think of is love.”

People think fortune comes from the number of dollars and cents in a bank account. They’re wrong. It’s when someone you’re uncontrollably in love with returns that love with a healthy dose of trust. That’s when you’re truly wealthy.

Kitty blinks hard before squeezing Angie tightly. “Let’s get you finished so you two can skedaddle.”

We take care of the payment, a very large tip, and aftercare products. Then we’re outside in the cool February air. I squeeze Angie’s fingers through her gloves. “Where to now?”

Angie’s about to open her mouth when a paparazzi comes up and snaps our photo. Right next to us. “Great shot, Ward and Angie. Say, who got the ink?” The kid winks before dashing off with his prize photo.

I growl, debating whether or not to take off after him to smash the camera to smithereens. Angie reaches over and lays her hand across my heart. “Ward, let them take all the photos they want. Even if they were to guess, make all the assumptions they could possibly make, they’re still not going to get it right about us. Right?” Angie’s eyes are filled with laughter.

She’s absolutely right.

I cup her face with my left hand, feeling the cool band of metal beneath my glove. The feeling is exciting and thrilling as I’ve only been wearing it for three days.

Three perfect days.

And so far, no one’s cottoned on to the fact except our small family who was present.

“Let’s go home,” she suggests.

“I love that idea,” I growl.

Within minutes, we’re at our new condo—a space that’s closer to Carys and David. The three-bedroom, three-bath unit has the warmth of our weekend place in Brewster with floor-to-ceiling windows, a study I completely remodeled before we moved in, and a kitchen my wife loves using during the week. Flower plunks herself in front of the postwar-era windows every single morning before we leave for work, ignoring us in her sunlit bliss.

That night, I reverently kiss around Angie’s new tattoo, worshiping it, worshiping her. “Every single day, I love you more.”