Blame it on the Tequila by Fiona Cole (the reading strategies book txt) 📕

times had I hurt her when I chose the job over her or when I thought it wasn’t a big deal when I chose my job over her.

“I’m sure Aspen would want me to go, but I’m not going to.” Finally, she looked up, her eyes softening when they met mine. “I’m exactly where I want to be—here with you.”

I forced myself to stay quiet after that when all I wanted to do was tell her how much she meant to me and how important she was, but my words had been rendered useless by previous actions. So, I let my decision do the talking for me. I let it sink in.

She studied my face until finally, the smallest of smiles tipped her lips. “Good.”

“Besides, I’d hate to miss another awesome accent.”

“Oh, shut up,” she scoffed, rolling her eyes.

“I miss having fun with you,” I admitted.

She waved it off. “You have the guys to keep you entertained.”

“True, but they’re not quite you.”

“Well, there’s also all the women you’ve been with over the years. Didn’t seem to miss much then,” she muttered.

She winced as soon as the words left her mouth, and I let it slide. We were doing a lot better about starting fresh, but we weren’t great. Too much lingered between us. Too much tension and resentment. And sometimes, if I looked close enough—too much love to be hidden. Instead, it got masked by the random snarky slipups we both made. Thankfully, we came to the unspoken agreement to let those slide. But they were still there as a reminder that what we were doing was nothing more than a veneer. Even so, I’d take it.

“What’s the tattoo on your leg?” I asked, changing the subject.

She looked down to where her shorts rose up to expose close to her hip before tugging them back down.

“Oh, come on. You can’t not tell me,” I cajoled.

She bit her lip and studied me before finally releasing it with a sigh. I was grateful for the small space between us because I wasn’t sure I’d be able to stop myself from soothing the rosy, plump flesh.

“Fine,” she huffed, hiking her shorts back up. “It’s a DNA breaking up into music notes.”

I sat upright and hunched over, resting my elbows on my knees to get as close as possible while still keeping space. Fuck, her skin was tempting. The pale flesh completely unblemished beyond a few faint freckles and the elegant DNA strand with flowers woven throughout.

“Are those…” I squinted, laughing when I saw it. “Puzzle pieces?”

“I said I love puzzles, okay?” she defended.

“I love it. It’s totally you. Now show me some more.”

“Well, you have to show me some, too. Fair is fair.”

“Done.” With that, I whipped my sweatshirt over my head, leaving me in just a tank. I couldn’t help but puff my chest up when her jaw dropped a little taking me in. I let her look her fill, knowing that as soon as I called her out, she’d stop, and I wanted to bask in her awe. Moving slowly to not startle her, I turned my arm to the back and pointed at the guitar pick with our band initials inside. “Your turn.”

She showed me a minimalist mountain range behind her elbow, and I showed her my compass.

She showed me her Viking symbol on the other elbow, and I showed her the lotus blended into the compass.

She showed me the outline of the world map on her ankle, and I showed her mine adorning the top of my feet.

Through it all, we kept it innocent and light. Telling stories about how we got each one and the regrets of the others. While mine were an ever-growing collage on my arms, hers were sporadic, and like little hidden treasures I wanted to find.

“What was your first one?” I asked.

She narrowed her eyes and chewed her cheek, considering something. With a small shrug almost to herself, she turned her back to me and started pulling up her shirt.

Oh fuck.

I could keep my space from an ankle and an elbow, but the bare expanse of her back had me tipping over the edge, and I had to clench my fists to keep from smoothing both palms up her back and into her hair. Once the shirt reached her shoulders, she clutched it tight to her chest and looked over her shoulder. I didn’t know where I wanted to look first. Her back? Her tattoo? Or her stunning profile?

“It’s one of my favorite sayings,” she explained, pulling my attention to the tattoo.

The fine script was impossible to read, so I fell to my knees and inched closer. A clean line drawing of a phoenix sat between her shoulder blades, one of the lines of its tail extended down her into sharp cursive.

I am the storm.

If Nova could be put into a tattoo, this was it. This was her. It was perfect.

And I couldn’t not feel it on her.

Moving slowly, knowing I should pull back, but unable to stop, I reached for her. Her whole back tensed, but she didn’t pull back when my fingertip just grazed the tip of the bird. I followed the gentle swirls and down the tail. With each pass—each second—I connected with her, her breathing picked up. My lungs worked overtime, too, struggling to match my racing heart.

I stroked down the letters, feeling each dainty ridge of her spine, wondering how long I could drag this out. Wondering how far I could take this. When I reached the base, I held my finger there just above the edge of her shorts and soothed back and forth. With each pass, I added pressure and stretched a little further.

“Parker,” she whispered.

I added my other fingers, pushing up and in, centimeters from pressing my palm to her skin.

Then the door opened, and the guys piled in.

I jerked back to the couch, and Nova slammed her shirt back down. Oren blocked the door and looked over his shoulder at the other guys, missing the