TWO YEARS LATER
“This is nuts,” I murmur.
Steele grins and holds out his hand. I take it, of course, and squeeze his fingers. He pulls me out of the car and onto the sidewalk. He’s been talking about this surprise for a month but refused to tell me exactly what he had planned.
I would’ve been fine with not knowing, except he kept bringing it up—and that’s what piqued my curiosity. His excitement.
Now we’re parked on the street outside a popular tattoo shop on the downtown strip of this little tourist town. It was a bit of a drive from Boston. But now, this is obviously a massive hint at what the surprise is going to be—I’m just not sure whether the appointment is for him, me, or both of us…
“Excuse me,” a woman calls, marching down the street toward us. “Are you Steele O’Brien?”
Steele smiles politely at her and nods.
“Oh, my gosh. Can I get your autograph?” The woman, no joke, fishes a small notebook out of her purse. She flips to an empty page. “We’re going to your game tomorrow night in Boston! My family is going to freak out. What brings you to our quiet town?”
He takes the notebook and offered Sharpie, although he doesn’t answer her question.
“We see so many famous people visiting,” the woman says to me. “I like to always be prepared. There’s been an influx of visitors lately.”
I grin and eye Steele. One thing CPU hockey didn’t adequately prepare him for was the amount of fans he would amass. Nowhere near the level of Knox or Greyson, though, who also went into the NHL after college. Scrolling social media, I’m guaranteed to see a video montage of at least one of them, set to some sexy music.
Steele doesn’t find it as funny. The tips of his ears are red, and he poses for a picture with the woman. And then she’s gone, and I’m left smirking at my husband.
“Shut it,” he grumbles, taking my hand and practically dragging me into the tattoo shop.
“You never know who you’re going to run into,” I tease him.
We moved to Tennessee shortly after Steele was signed. Even still, we’re never actually home. If he’s traveling, I’m traveling. He says his goal is to get on a team with one of his friends. They’ve been spread out all over the league at this rate.
Coach Roake was on one of the late-night talk shows the other week. Apparently, no other college team has had as much success getting their players into the NHL as he had. It was almost cute, watching Coach sing their praises.
The bell above the door chimes, and warmth envelops us.
A tattooed man comes out and greets us. He’s surprisingly gorgeous—not that I’m, you know, looking. He’s just got that tortured appearance. Starving artist meets… success.
“Welcome to Starlight,” he says. “You’re Steele and Aspen?”
“Yep.”
“Saint Hart,” he introduces, shaking our hands. “Ready to get started?”
I dig my heels in. “Wait. Sorry.” I glare at Steele. “Are you going to tell me what we’re doing?”
Steele snickers. “Yeah, little viper. I’m getting you tattooed on me.”
I narrow my eyes at him, but he seems unbothered. And he follows the tattoo artist back into his studio without hesitation.
I mean, really. Why would he hesitate? He’s covered in tattoos. Another one wouldn’t make a difference. Even if it’s supposedly representing me.
Steele sits where Saint directs him, and I take one of the chairs off to the side. Positioned so I can definitely see what sort of madness Steele has come up with. But then I decide that maybe I’m better off not knowing, and I head back into the front lobby area. There’s a white couch with a low coffee table in front of it, and a spread of magazines that feature Starlight.
All in all, the vibe of this place is cool. I can see why magazines would be interested in featuring it—and his work, hung in gold picture frames set against the dark paint.
“Do you want to see the stencil?” Steele calls.
“Nope.”
“What if it’s on my dick?”
I snort, keeping my gaze on the wall of art. “Then you’re shit out of luck on getting laid this trip, huh?”
Steele groans.
I smirk to myself. Except, I wouldn’t put it past him to get a snake tattooed on his snake.
Gross. But also…
With that thought in mind, I hurry into the room—and relax when I see the purple stencil on Steele’s forearm. His other arm is covered in tattoos that I love to run my fingers over. The rose, the trees, a wolf. And the deer skull on his sternum. He has more, of course, but the deer skull is my favorite. For no other reason than it’s a nice place to trace with my lips, and I love the morbidity of it.
Still. Even though the placement of the tattoo is better than what I expected, it takes me a minute to work out what it is.
A snake, winding down and ending with its teeth sunk into Steele’s wrist.
I shake my head and sit beside him while Saint prepares his tattoo machine and ink. Just a little cup of black.
“A viper,” Steele explains.
“I can see that.” My cheeks heat. “Wouldn’t a tree have been more… apt?”
He laughs. “You’re not a tree. Your venom went right to my heart.” He catches my hand and brings it to his lips. He kisses my knuckles. “And I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
I shake my head, drawing my legs up onto the chair.
To be fair, it’s kind of surreal to see an artist like Saint Hart do his thing. The hum of the tattoo machine is almost kind of lulling—especially since it’s not going in my skin. But the longer I watch, the more I think I want one of my own.
Five hours—and a few breaks—later, and Saint wipes down the tattoo for the last time. He had Steele change positions a few times, since it wraps all the way around his forearm, and now he cleans all of it.
Steele rises and checks it out in the mirror. He started smiling when the tattoo began, and now it widens into a full-on grin. He ducks into the bathroom, and I glance at Saint.
I bite my lip.
But Saint just smiles faintly. “You want one, too?”
I nod.
“He already booked you an appointment following his.”
“That asshole.” It’s hard not to laugh, though. “Did he tell you what I might want?”
“Something about a wedding ring?”
I lift my left hand. I have a wedding ring. The thin little band perfectly accentuates the engagement ring that came from his mother.
“He’s delusional,” I inform the tattoo artist. I tell him what I want instead, and Saint nods.
“Give me some time to draw that up.”
Steele reemerges, and Saint puts a waterproof wrap over his tattoo. It’ll stay on for a few days to help with the healing process.
“Ready to go, baby?” Steele wraps his hand around the back of my neck, drawing me toward him.
I let him kiss me. His lips against mine never fail to elicit a flutter of butterfly wings in my chest—or maybe it’s just anxiety for what I’m about to do.
The first tattoo I got—from him—I wasn’t awake to receive, or to feel the pain. Although I didn’t love how long it took to heal, and the sunburn feeling that came with it, I can’t deny that I probably got off lucky.
“You don’t want me to use my appointment?” I ask against his lips.
He pauses. His eyes open, and he pouts. “How’d you know?”
“Because I told Saint I wanted a tattoo, and he said I already had a booking.” I push at Steele’s chest.
Not that he lets me get very far.
“What are you going to get?” he asks, his gaze already roving my body. Like he can pinpoint exactly where it’s going to be.
I shake my head. “Nope, I’m not telling you. And in fact, you can wait on that couch. Out of sight.”
He doesn’t argue—surprisingly. He seems excited that I’m doing anything at all.
Saint comes back, Steele leaves, and we get to work.
The design is perfect and simple, the first iteration the best. He places the stencil, double checks that it’s what I want, and begins.
The first prick of the needle is the worst, but I relax into it after a while. He works quietly, not making any small talk. Which is fine by me. My heart is in my throat the whole time.
“Done,” Saint says quietly.
I jerk out of my thoughts and climb to my feet. I examine my shoulder blade in the mirror, grinning to myself. Because it’s gorgeous.
A pair of hockey skates, with rolls of sheet music sticking out of the top. The faint lines of the sheet music, the tiny notes, convey what the papers are exactly. Along with the beads of water on the skates, and the shading, it’s absolutely perfect.
“Do you want to call your husband back?” Saint asks me.
I bite my lip. “No. Can we cover it?”
He pauses, then nods. He puts a bandage over it, taping it to my skin. It’s not like the waterproof one Steele got—so that way when he rips it off to see it, it’s not permanently unprotected.
“Well?” Steele asks, striding back into the room.
Just in time for me to pull my shirt back into place.
“Where is it?” His gaze roves over me. “Hmm, little viper?”
I smirk and go to him, putting my hand on his chest and reaching up to kiss his lips. He obliges for a second, but his curiosity is too great.
I inch around him, and now there’s nothing between me and the door.
“Tell you what,” I whisper. “If you catch me… I’ll let you see it.”
His eyes darken.
“Don’t forget to pay Saint,” I add on a laugh. I back away from him until I hit the door. Then I push through it and step out into the cool evening air.
“Fuck,” Steele says behind me. “Take my card. We’ll be back!”
I grin and take off running with my husband hot on my heels.
Just the way we like it.
