I rise up and give him side-eye. “Tramp stamp is not a term I like.”

“Right,” he teases and touches my cheek. “It’s a lower-back tattoo, and I insist you wear low-rise shorts and crop tops every morning when I walk out and see you bent over your laptop.”

I never said I wouldn’t go in a tattoo shop again, but he knew. Unexpected emotion rises. “That’s such a thoughtful gift.”

“I got you something else.” He moves around, reaches in his pocket, and pulls out a black velvet box. “Never got around to giving it to you yesterday. Meant to, but we did other things.” He gives me a wicked grin.

I sit up against his pillow and open the box, my fingers trembling as I pull out two black bobby pins, a royal-blue glass butterfly on the end of each one. “Kick” is engraved on one wingspan, “Ass” on the other. I trace the scripted gold writing.

He watches my face. “I found them in a jewelry store downtown. A necklace didn’t feel right—you always wear your pearls. Earrings, you don’t wear them and . . .” He stops, dropping his gaze, a hesitant expression flitting over his face as he speaks. I get the impression Devon doesn’t give gifts often. “Anyway, I saw the pins, and they reminded me of the night in the VIP room when you took yours out and left them on the table. I had them engrave the words so you’ll always be reminded that you can do anything you want.”

“How do you do it?” I ask as emotion overwhelms me and a tear escapes and slides down my face.

He wipes it away. “Aw, baby, do what?”

“Make me imagine every morning with you.” Make me fall so deeply and irrevocably in love that my soul belongs to him, every beat of my heart in sync with his.

He sucks in a breath and kisses me long and deep. There’s a hint of desperation in the way he clings to me, in the words he doesn’t say.

We part, our breaths heavy. “Giselle . . .” He stops as a frightened look grows in his eyes, and I put my fingers to his lips.

I can wait for him. He’s right there with me; he just doesn’t know it.

Fifteen minutes later, I’m past the embarrassment and dressed in a green Buddy the Elf T-shirt—on sale—and shorts. I lie on my stomach on a fold-up apparatus Danika brought along with her tattoo machine.

With gloves and a mask on, she leans over me, her machine buzzing as pricks of needles tingle over my back. I showed her the pins, the azure and turquoise colors, and she’s retouching the other side of my old tattoo to match them while creating the other wing.

Aiden munches on garlic bread from our dinner as he reclines on one of the loungers. Devon halfheartedly attempted to get him to leave, but I told him it was fine.

“What were you trying to tell me at my party?” I ask him after Devon gets up to grab a water and Danika takes a break.

I hold my hands up in the “sign language” he tried to convey at the party.

He smirks, moving his fingers in the motions. “This is D, genius, for Devon.” He presses one hand together, the fingers tapping against his thumb. “This is talk. In other words, we need to talk about Devon.”

My gaze catches Devon answering his phone and heading down the hall for privacy. “About what?”

“Dude. He pushed me around last week. Over you.”

My eyes narrow. “Did you deserve it?”

He rolls his eyes. “I said some stuff, but I was sincere when I told him I wanted to ask you out, but whatever, that ship has sailed—you’re his.”

I grin. “Your master plan of pissing off Jack failed.”

He blushes. “It wasn’t like that. Anyway, I’ve never seen him like this. He’s always had girls around him, but he doesn’t get upset or jealous. So you and me, we’re just friends, so forget all that flirty stuff I said. Just don’t fall for me, ’kay?”

Danika snorts, and he shoots a glare at her. “Women adore me, tattoo girl. I’m every girl’s dream.”

I stuff my face into the table and try not to laugh. “Ah, Aiden. You’re like a playful puppy I love to cuddle.”

Danika picks up her tattoo machine. “All bark, no bite.”

Aiden huffs and glares at both of us. “You two aren’t taking me seriously. I can prove how addictive I am. Give me an hour, Danika. You busy after this?”

I look over my shoulder at her. She rakes her eyes over him, lingering on his shoulders. Shrugs. “Meh. If I throw a ball, will you fetch?”

He glowers at her. “You’re gonna eat every word.”

“Okay, I’ll see what you got, quarterback,” she chirps.

“Devon, your boy is hitting on your artist,” I call out, giggling.

“Not a boy,” Aiden says around a breadstick. “Danika’s gonna get the full awesome Aiden treatment.”

“In an hour?” I laugh.

He points his food at me. “You make a terrible wingman, and after all the things I did for you with Greg.”

“That was you, huh? Putting the jersey chasers on him.”

“True colors, Giselle. How a man reacts around other women is a big clue—even if it is a first date. Devon never looks at anyone but you,” he says. “Been that way for a while; guess it just took me a while to realize it.” He grins. “I saw you in your underwear. I’m never letting Devon forget it.”

I make a moue with my lips. “Ah, little puppy, you need a pat on the head?”

He bares his teeth, and I smirk.

Devon comes back to the den and sits next to me, picking my hand up and threading our fingers together. He gives Aiden a look that says, Mine.

It makes me feel warm all over. If another woman gets near him—my brain explodes at the image, a scowl forming on my forehead. My hand tightens in his, and as if he reads me, he leans down and gives me a slow kiss. “Yours,” he whispers in my ear.

A few minutes later, Devon and Aiden help Danika pack while I check out the artwork in the hall mirror, a gorgeous blue butterfly with black edging around the wings and swirls of curvy black ink fanning out on the sides. She dabs Vaseline over it and puts a bandage on, filling me in on the aftercare instructions to remove the bandage after twenty-four hours, then clean it with antimicrobial soap, pat dry, and apply ointment, but leave off the bandages.

Aiden and she leave, and Devon walks them to the door while I go through the food left in the kitchen.

“Hey, who called earlier?” I ask when he returns.

He leans against the counter. “My dad.”

My eyes flare. “What did he say?”

He tucks his hands in his pockets. “Not much. Just that he’s okay.” He pauses. “He sounded sober.” There’s a hopeful look on his face that makes my heart snag.

“Did he say where he was?”

He shakes his head. “No, just that he’s with friends and wanted to make sure I got his note and that he didn’t want me to worry about him. I told him I paid off the debts.”

“Do you want to call him back?” It might have been hard to talk with company here.

“Nah, he said he had to go. I told him I’m here if he . . . wants to go to rehab.” He rakes a hand through his hair. “He said he’d think about it. He’s never been, you know, and I feel like if he could get therapy and a quiet place to figure things out, it might make a real difference. It’s his move now,” he says, weary acceptance in his voice. “He’ll always be my dad, but I can’t keep giving him money.”