Page 130 of The Men of Summer Collection

A week later

Grant shakes me awake two days before pitchers and catchers report. “Dude, I need new ink.”

Rubbing my eyes, I yawn. “Why the urgency?”

“Because I’m married now. Duh.” He pulls on a T-shirt. “I need something to celebrate being a taken man.”

I sit up in bed, dragging a hand through my messy hair. “My name in a heart? So cute.”

He scoffs. “Love you, man. But no.”

“How about I worship Number Eighteen?”

Grant shakes his head. “Get up, get up. You’re coming with me. I know what I want.”

“Mind if I shower first?”

“Mind if I suck you off in the shower?”

Tilting my head, I pretend to consider that offer. “Nope. Don’t mind at all.”

Grant delivers, and twenty minutes later, we hop in the BMW and drive to Petaluma.

Grant has his sights set on a bird.

“Like a big bird of prey,” he says as we walk along the block to Ink Lore.

“Are you sure about that?”

“Can you picture it? Full back tat.” He reaches behind him and drags his fingertip down his spine. “An eagle, wings spread, being all badass.”

“As eagles are,” I say.

“I want to be covered in it.” We reach the shop, and when Grant sets his hand on the door, I cover it with mine and meet his eyes.

“What are you really getting?”

He winks. “You’ll see.”

“Indeed, I will,” I say, then push open the door and follow my husband into the shop.

A woman with purple hair waves to us.

“If it isn’t Grant ‘Knows He’s Hot Shit’ Blackwood,” she says brightly, then shifts her gaze to me. “And hey there, Declan.”

I walk over to the artist and kiss her cheek. “Good to see you, Echo. How’s everything?”

“Living the dream,” she says, gesturing to the store. “My dad gave me the shop when he retired.”

“Congrats. That’s awesome.”

She snaps on gloves, then turns to Grant. “I’ve got everything ready for you. I had the design already done. Are you good to go?”

Grant whips off his T-shirt. “Absolutely.”

“Is anyone going to tell me what’s on this work of art?” I ask again.

Echo shrugs impishly. “Ask your man.”

Grant mimes zipping his lips. So, I huff, then sit and wait.

Thirty minutes later, I can’t stop staring at his left shoulder, utterly mesmerized. This is no big back tattoo. It’s a small but beautiful piece of art—a silhouette of a bird, its wings spread.

“It’s gorgeous,” I whisper reverently, transfixed by the black ink on my husband’s body.

Grant shifts his gaze to me. “You like?”

“I love,” I say.

“It kind of reminds me of you.”

“Yeah?”

“You wanted to be a bird. I like to think you flew to me.” He flashes me a goofy grin. “Maybe that’s cheesy, but I believe it.”

A tingle swoops down my chest, warming me up, driving me on when an idea pokes at me insistently. “Any chance you can do another one?” I ask Echo.

“On your hubs?”

I’ve never had a tattoo before. But then, I’ve never seen one that felt so right, and this one means something to him and to me. It says something about who we are to each other and makes me feel like we’re always connected. “No. On me.”

Grant’s eyes pop, all big and blue. “You’re going to get a matching tattoo?” He sounds shocked—maybe too shocked.

I waggle my left hand. “We have matching rings. We share a house. Sometimes we share clothes. Is a tattoo your limit?”

His grin is magnetic, telling me the shock in his eyes is the good kind. “Get one. Get it now. You’re going to look so hot with a bird on you.”

With her eyes focused on Grant’s shoulder, Echo nods. “If you want the same design, I can fit you in.”

Fifteen minutes later, I’m in the chair, with Echo inking a small silhouette of bird wings onto my chest.

When we leave the shop, Grant wraps an arm around my shoulders. “You’re stuck with me now.”

“Yes. Yes, I am.”