She laughs, and the sound lights me up. “No, really. Why is there a rose on your arm, and what does it say underneath?”
I slide my arms off the table before she can read it. “It’s just an important dateto me. That’s all.”
She waits, those wide brown eyes studying me as she folds her hands and rests her chin on top. “Well, are you going to tell me the significance?”
“No, I’m not.”
Her face falls. “It’s for some girl, isn’t it?” She lifts a brow. “Someone you met in the Marines?”
I shake my head. “I already told you—I avoided women by playing darts.”
Scarlett crosses her arms and leans back against the booth. “You’re just going to leave me hanging?”
“Yes.”
“Fine.” She pulls her glass close, taking another sip. “Keep your mysterious tattoo secret, I don’t care.”
“Clearly, you do.”
“I don’t.” She’s trying to play it cool, but I can see right through it.
It’s taking every ounce of self-control not to tell her about the date on my arm. “And now you’re pouting because you can’t have your way.”
“I’mnotpouting.” But her bottom lip is pushed out so far, a bird couldn’t miss it.
“It’s a good look on you,” I say instead. “Very mature.”
She kicks me under the table, and I bust out laughing.
This is what I’ve been missing in my life.
“So, was tonight enough of a distraction for you?” I ask.
The smile that spreads across her face could power the entire carnival. “Tonight was the best distraction. I owe you one, Marco.”
We take our time meandering back to the Marco mansion. When we finally return to our suite, she goes over to the closet and pulls out a wrapped package.
“I, uh, got you something,” she says, practically sprinting across the room to give it to me. “A last-minute find that seemed destined to be yours.” The look on her face tells me she’s up to something.
“What? You didn’t have to?—”
She nods. “Just open it.”
There’s a little note on top. I open it and read it aloud: “Sweet dreams. And you’re welcome, Heart-Jammies.”
Then I look at her. “What did you get me, Scarlett Rossi?”
“I’m just making sure you have appropriate sleepwear for tonight,” she says with a twinkle in her eye.
I unwrap the package to find a pair of lightweight pajamas covered in tiny red hearts—the same pattern as her sleep shorts. They’re the type of sleepwear that no hockey coach wouldeverbe caught dead in, unless he wanted to be teased mercilessly by his players for the rest of his life.
But then it hits me: she actually went out and bought these for me. Which means she was thinking of me.
When I look up, she’s biting back a smile.
“When did you get these?” I ask, holding them up against me.
“While you were at practice,” she answers, looking pleased with herself. “They match mine.”