I Like You a Latte {Completed}

14 | Tasting the Sweetest Things

She took that moment to look at the arm settled over her shoulder, the skin covered by a sleeve of various tattoos.

He was wearing long sleeves, but they'd been rolled up to his elbows, and she analyzed the visible skin carefully; the tattoos started just above his wrist and seemed to blend together in an intricate black design.

"It's weird, isn't it?" Griffin's raspy, sleep-laden voice startled her, and she looked up at him with guilty eyes.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"

"It's okay, Beverly. I don't mind." They shared a gentle smile, and he shifted, moving his arm until it was settled over hers.

Tracing her fingers along what she could see of the swirling designs, she murmured, "Do they have meaning?"

"Don't most things?"

Huffing a chuckle, she nodded. "Whatever they mean, I don't think they're weird; I think they're kind of beautiful, actually. Don't tell my mom, though—she'd kill me if I ever got a tattoo."

Griffin's entire body tensed. "Does that mean she doesn't like anyone with tattoos?"

Beverly's brows rose curiously. "No, not necessarily; she'd kill me if I got a tattoo, but she won't kill you."

"So," he coughed, using his other hand to rub the back of his neck, "she wouldn't stop you from . . . hanging out with me, if she sees my tattoos?"

Moving both her hands to grasp the one he'd settled in her lap, she snatched it up and squeezed it tightly. "No, Griffin, she wouldn't. You might have to promise her that you won't force me to get one, but she's not the type to judge others by how they appear." She paused, letting her gaze drift back down to his arm.

In between the mixing of black ink and tan skin, she caught a different shape. Pulling his arm up until it was only inches from her face, she scrutinized it carefully. "A clock?" It sure looked like one—an antique stopwatch, almost, and the words imprinted on the its face, underneath the hands, read May 20, 2009. Next to the clock, half-hidden by his shirt sleeve, was a flower of some kind.

Swinging her gaze up to ask Griffin what it all meant, she faltered when she found him watching her with amusement. Swallowing her embarrassment, she dropped his arm and folded her hands in her lap to keep herself from touching him again, because Oh, I really want to. "Sorry."

He shook his head. "I told you, it's fine. If I didn't want you to look, I wouldn't let you. Would you like to see the rest of it?"

Beverly's eyes widened. "Can I?"

Griffin chuckled, inching away from her before tugging off his shirt and leaving his upper half—

HOLY FREAKING HELL.

Beverly had only had one boyfriend in her lifetime, and Davis had been nice, but a bit on the chubby side, which Beverly's high school friends had always teased her about. Beverly had never understood why it mattered, since she'd always liked Davis for his personality and could care less how he looked, but now . . . well, now she understood why women liked attractive men.

If making coffee didn't work out for Griffin, there was no doubt that modeling would be an easy fallback career. Griffin was stunning. "How often do you work out?" She asked before she could stop herself, her fingers trailing over the well-defined muscles in his abdomen.

Griffin smiled wolfishly. "Three days a week before I go to Cynthia's; lifting all of the stuff at the store helps too."

"Hot damn," Beverly muttered. Letting her eyes drift over him slowly, she froze when she realized she was looking at him like he was a piece of prime rib. Cheeks tinging with red, she snapped her hand back and cleared her throat, shrugging nonchalantly. "I mean . . . not bad, I guess."