“Could be sugar,” he says, tipping his head like he’s giving it serious thought. “But I think it’s you, Morrison. You just have that…luringeffect.”
My stomach flips again.Damn him.
“Oh my God." Quinn, from her perch behind the espresso machine, snorts loudly. "Colt Lane, if you're looking for the poor life choices, you can find them in aisle three. They're right next to the man who clearly has nowhere else to be on a Tuesday morning."
Colt's gaze shifts to Quinn, and his grin widens. "Ah. The tattoo artist. Still mad about last month?"
"Mad?" Quinn's eyes narrow. "I'm notmad. I'mincomplete. You fled my chair before I could finish my masterpiece. Do you have any idea how aggravating it is for me to leave a piece unfinished?"
"In my defense, you were tattooing myass."
"That's right! An ass that now has a stick figure of my boyfriend and his abnormally large dick on it!" Quinn gestures wildly. "Gabe's going to be so disappointed when he finds out his tribute portrait is missing its most anatomically generous features."
Their bickering continues, and Colt has the decency to look slightly embarrassed, which is a new expression on him.
"Can we not talk about this again?" Colt groans, running a hand through his hair. "Every time the nurses questioned me about the tattoo during my check-up appointments, I got very embarrassed."
"Hold on." I hold up a hand, a grin spreading across my face. "You had to show yourassto the nurses?"
"Multiplenurses," he confirms, his expression pained. "And a very concerned neurologist who wanted to make sure the tattoo wasn't a symptom of my head injury. I'm pretty sure he just wanted to make fun of me, though."
Quinn cackles. "Please tell me you explained it was a bet."
"I tried! They didn't believe me. One of them asked if I needed a psych consult." Colt shakes his head. "Do you know how hard it is to explain to a medical professional why you have a half-finished drawing of your teammate's junk on your left cheek?"
"To be fair," I say, biting back a laugh, "thatispretty concerning behavior."
"It was abet," he protests. "A sacred bet."
"Well, who's fault is that?" Quinn huffs. "You lost the bet. I won the privilege of tattooing whatever I wanted on you. It's not my fault you panicked halfway through and ran away like a little bitch before I could finish the—" she makes air quotes—"Devereaux's Secret Weaponlabel."
"I didn'tpanic." Colt crosses his arms. "My teammates helped me make a strategic retreat. It's calledcamaraderie."
"You literally sprinted out of my shop with your pants around your ankles."
"Strategic. Retreat."
I'm trying very hard not to laugh, but my composure is hanging by a thread. This is the most ridiculous conversationI've had in months, and somehow, it's also the mostaliveI've felt.
Growing up with three younger brothers, bickering was basically our love language. Mason, Declan, and Beck would argue abouteverything… who got the last slice of pizza, whose turn it was to shovel the driveway, whether a hot dog counted as a sandwich.
I'd referee from the kitchen counter, rolling my eyes while secretly loving every chaotic second of it.
When did I stop having conversations that weren't about inventory, or Morgan's homework, or whether we could afford the electric bill this month?
When did talking become just another item on my to-do list?
"Quinn." Colt fixes her with a look. "As much as I appreciate your dedication to your craft, I'm not here for tattoo negotiations."
"Then whyareyou here?" I ask, and those incredibly blue eyes drift back to me.
And when they do, the teasing energy shifts into something else.
Colt looks down to his sneakers, and I watch as he twists them nervously on my bakery floor.
"I dunno. Just needed another muffin. The blueberry one this morning was..." He pauses, searching for the right word. "Distracting."
"Distracting," I repeat flatly.