Page 29 of A Stop in Time
I’ve been around enough tattoos to recognize when one’s a coverup for scars. A lot of our men have done this, so my gaze carefully tracks the length of her arm. Whoever her tattoo artist was, they did a damn good job.
I don’t know what the hell happened to her, but just knowing this woman suffered so much pain has my chest pinching painfully. To have that much scarring and to that extent…Christ. That must’ve hurt like a motherfucker.
I’m struck by how those scars that cut a path along the side of her face are so incongruous with the rest of her features. Now that she faces me, giving me a full unencumbered view, I don’t get what the hell those dipshits were talking about earlier.
“Not much to look at” couldn’t be further from the truth. Between her lack of makeup and backward ball cap, she’s got an I do what I want and don’t give a shit what anybody else says kind of vibe.
She’s not trying to impress anyone, yet she’s undeniably attractive. Those scars seem to add to her beauty, especially with eyes the lightest possible shade of blue.
She lifts her chin defiantly, as if she’s daring me to not cringe, while I look my fill. Maybe the other asshats might, but not me. If anybody knows what it’s like to have your body be a show-and-tell of the scars of your past, I sure as hell do. Reggie left his mark on me—time and again.
Once my gaze finishes sweeping over her entire face, our eyes collide. “Huh. I didn’t expect that.”
Her tone is flippant. “Let me guess. You didn’t expect a scar-face, huh?” Holding up her hands, she wiggles her spread fingers with a brittle, fake-as-shit smile. “Surprise.” Then she drops her hands and turns to face the bar.
“Nah. Just didn’t expect your eyes to be as beautiful as the rest of you.”
What?
“What?” She snaps her head around and stares at me like I’ve lost my mind.
Probably because I have. What the fuck am I trying to do, be Casanova? Jesus. I’m here for one reason only. She’s scrambled my damn brain because her scars caught me by surprise. That’s all there is to it.
I scrub a hand down my face and try to regain composure. Clearing my throat, I force myself to meet her probing gaze. “So…you gonna help me find this Mac guy or what?”
She studies me for a long beat. “Yeah, sure.” When she extends a hand to me, I accept her handshake with an inward sigh of relief.
Until she smirks. Because that pushes my fucking nerves to the edge in a hot second.
“Congratulations. You found ‘the Mac guy.’”
17
MAC
His reaction is solid gold.
He stills a second before releasing my hand, and I’m not sure what to make of my strange resignation at the loss of his touch. Weird as fuck.
“You’re Mac?”
“Yep.” I pop the “p” and wiggle my eyebrows, because this is too fun. “Mac Ford, in the flesh.”
Gaze sharpening, he cocks his head to the side. “You’re a woman.”
As soon as he says it, he winces, as if realizing how ridiculous he sounds. Of course, I can’t let that shit go.
No way, no how.
I school my expression into one of faux shock, wide-eyed. “What?” Peering down at my T-shirt-covered breasts, I place my hands over them, my tone reverent. “So that must be why I have these beauties.”
Lifting my fist to the side of my head, I mimic an explosion. “Mind. Absolutely. Blown.” I breathe out with exaggerated gratitude. “Thank you, Danny. Now, I finally know what I am.”
That penetrating green gaze gives nothing away. Man, he has some pretty eyes. Irises such a beautiful color, framed by dark, long lashes. Not fair. Not fair at all.
“It’s Daniel.” A millisecond of a pause. “You done?”
“Nope.” I cup my hand behind my ear and pretend to listen. “Do you hear that?”