Total pages in book: 47
Estimated words: 46715 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 234(@200wpm)___ 187(@250wpm)___ 156(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 46715 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 234(@200wpm)___ 187(@250wpm)___ 156(@300wpm)
“I wanted to wait until the tattoo was finished,” she says softly. “Because it means so much. It’s a testament to all you had to go through as a kid. Everything you shared with me when it was too much to share with anybody else.”
“You’re my woman,” I tell her passionately. “The only one I ever want. You deserve to know it all.”
She moves the needle from against my skin. “And that’s why I had to wait. As we finish this, a symbol of your past…I want to tell you about our future.”
Her voice is quivering so much that I have to sit up to turn and face my woman.
She places the tattoo gun down, wringing her gloved hands. She looks so capable and beautiful in her new work shirt, her hair tied up, wildly gorgeous.
Her lips twitch as though she’s going to smile, but there’s heaviness in her words.
“I know you had to go through hell. And all we’ve talked about…the future, the kids, the family, I hope that can be your heaven.”
“It is,” I say huskily. “You are.”
She meets my eyes, letting the smile come, her cheeks flushing in that enthralling way.
“I hope I made the right decision, then, waiting. It’s only been a few days since I learned, but….”
“Learned what?”
I stand, walking shirtless over to my woman, not feeling the stinging pulse of the tattoo.
Only the heat of her closeness.
Of her.
“I’m pregnant,” she says, her voice alight with joy.
I let out a noise of pure contentment, the way I did when we were falling through the air, strapped together, soaring toward our destination.
And that’s what we’re doing now.
As I pick her up and spin her around, laughing with delirious joy, we soar together.
EPILOGUE
FOUR AND A HALF MONTHS LATER
Lauren
I sit on the floor, my legs stretched out in front of me, my sketching pad open in my lap as Silas types on his laptop from the couch opposite me.
We like sitting in the living room and working together.
Even if we’re not talking, it gives a chance for the love to rise in the air, to whelm in every silent gesture.
My husband is shirtless. When he stands to walk from our cluttered living room toward the kitchen, I catch sight of his tattoo, the one I did, fading in amongst all the rest, completing the artwork the same way he and I complete each other.
He returns, placing a glass of chocolate milk on the table near me.
I offer him a smile, and he returns to his laptop.
It’s moments like these that truly communicate love, the simple joy of being in each other’s company, of a drink offered without asking.
I continue sketching a large love with my current client’s wife’s name on it, adding all the specific flourishes he asked for. It’s an early-stage premise, something to send to the client.
It makes me think of the sketches I sent to my man that started all this.
“What are you smiling about?” Silas says, closing his laptop and walking over.
He sits next to me on the floor where I am because it gives my lower back a break from the pregnancy pangs.
I sink gratefully into his embrace when he wraps his arm around me, hugging me and laying a gentle kiss on the top of my head.
“Are you thinking about the wedding?
I smile. We were married a month ago and returned from our honeymoon two weeks ago.
The wedding was beautiful, especially with Dad walking me down the aisle, handing me to his best friend without any awkwardness or hate or resentment, without anything other than love emanating from him, from everybody.
“It was amazing,” I tell him, kissing his shoulder, one hand resting on my belly and the other holding my husband’s. “But no, I was thinking about how this is what love is.”
“Just me and you in our messy living room.”
I grin, looking around at the boxes. We’re going to unpack tomorrow properly. It’s our second night in our new home.
“That’s it,” I murmur. “It’s….”
I cut off when I feel the little bump moving against my hand. My belly is shifting.
“Um, Silas,” I say, voice rising with unstoppable excitement.
“Is our little tattooist moving?” Silas says, voice rising just like mine.
I grin at the nickname he’s given to our unborn baby.
There’s no need to answer because soon my husband’s hand is on my belly, his lips spreading into a warm smile when he feels the kicking.
I place my hand on top of his, closing my eyes and tattooing this moment into my memory forever.
EPILOGUE
ONE YEAR LATER
Silas
“She is too precious,” Giorgia says, clasping her hands as I walk to the desk with Everly in the chest harness.
Our daughter has her earmuffs on in case the studio noise disturbs her. It’s like the nickname I gave her when she was still our hyperactive bump – our little tattooist – is sticking, and she feels as if she belongs here.