"Ha. Perfect," she said, standing to prove her point.
"They look great," Maggie said with approval. "I knew they would."
"Thank you so much. I love them," Blue said.
She gave Raf a big hug, then turned to Maggie and repeated the gesture. Eddie watched Blue's face over Maggie's shoulder and his chest got tight at the emotion he saw there.
One day soon, he hoped, Blue wouldn't look so humbled and surprised when people spoiled her.
Maggie gave a little sniff as they separated, and she and Blue laughed self-consciously.
"You still haven't told me what Eddie gave you," Maggie said.
"Yeah, what did you get Blue?" Raf asked.
"He gave me a piece of art," Blue said.
She shot him a warm, private look, then turned her back on Maggie and Raf and hoisted her T-shirt over her head, leaving it bunched over her arms but exposing her back.
"Oh, my God. Blue, it's beautiful," Maggie gasped, her hands going to her mouth as she took in the tattoo that now covered Blue's back.
Eddie watched his brother's face, not above wanting Raf's approval for such an important piece. Raf's expression was inscrutable as he studied the work, then he glanced at Eddie and offered him a single, sharp nod. Eddie smiled, pleased, then turned his gaze to the words that now covered Blue's back in crisp, elegant blackscript.
Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.
The snaking vine he'd sketched months ago wove its way through the words, and a new fairy peered out from the behind the top right corner of the text. Her eyes were wide with uncertainty, her body poised for flight, but she clung to the script as though determined to stand her ground.
She was Fear, Blue's new guardian, a deeply personal acknowledgement of the part the emotion had played in her life. "Because she saved me as many times as she cost me," Blue had explained when they worked on the sketches for her tattoo.
"Eddie, it's amazing," Maggie said, her tone soft with awe.
He smiled, then glanced at Blue, aware she was watching him.
"It's perfect," she said, and there was so much love and light and promise in her eyes that he had to reach out and touch her, just to make sure that she was real. That she was his.
It was a feeling that still hit him on a regular basis, even though she'd been sleeping in his bed for six months now, having moved in not long after they'd finally sorted their shit out.
It was the first time either of them had shared their personal space with someone else, and they'd both had to make adjustments. He'd learned to fold his clothes and leave them on the chair Blue had agreed was a decent compromise in their ongoing battle between his more casual house-keeping and her brutal minimalism, and she'd almost gotten to the stage where she could leave the dinner dishes until the morning before going to bed.
Almost.
Despite their differences - or maybe because of them - life had very quickly taken on a new richness, a new completeness now that they were together. Everything was different, everything felt both novel and at the same time comfortable and familiar, because even though they discovered new things about each other weekly, their love was built on a foundation of ten years of deep, abiding affection and history.
Simply, life was good with Blue at his side, in his bed and in his heart.
Overwhelmed by a rush of emotion, he stepped forward and caught her precious face in both hands, uncaring that she was trapped by her half-on/half-off sweater. Looking into her eyes, he kissed her, holding the simple contact for a long beat, absorbing the taste and feel and warmth of her into his bones.
"What was that for?" she asked when he finally lifted his head.
"Everything," he said.
A slow smile curved her mouth, and he knew she understood.
She always did.
~ THE END ~
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Her Best Worst Mistake: an excerpt
She thinks he's stuffy. He thinks she's spoilt.
Then the gloves come off and so do their clothes!
For six years Violet Sutcliffe has known that Martin St Clair is the wrong man for her best friend. He's stuffy, old before his time, conservative. He drives Violet nuts - and the feeling is entirely mutual. Then, out of nowhere, her friend walks out just weeks before her wedding to Martin, flying to Australia on a mission of self-discovery. Back in London, Violet finds herself feeling sorry for suddenly-single Martin. At least, she tells herself it's pity she feels. Then he comes calling one dark, stormy night and they discover that beneath their mutual dislike there lies a fiery sexual chemistry.
It's crazy and all-consuming - and utterly wrong. Because not only are they chalk and cheese, oil and water, but Martin once belonged to her best friend. A friend Violet is terrified of losing. What future can there be for a relationship with so many strikes against it?
How do I dislike thee, let me count the ways.
Violet Sutcliffe took a healthy swig from her champagne glass as she watched the tall, dark-haired man across the London Hilton's ballroom. He was wearing a classic black tuxedo, but he somehow managed to look stuffy rather than suave. But that was his gift-taking anything stylish, fun or frivolous and stifling the life out of it.
Martin St Clair glanced away from the elderly man he was talking to and caught her eye. Even from a distance she could see his upper lip curl ever so slightly. She arched an eyebrow in unspoken challenge.
The feeling is entirely mutual, my friend.
In fact, their antipathy had been entirely mutual from the moment her best friend Elizabeth began dating him six years ago, and familiarity hadn't done a damned thing to ease or ameliorate it. Sometimes, when she was suffering a rare bout of introspection, Violet wondered if she and Martin didn't both secretly enjoy disapproving of each other. Certainly she enjoyed taking pot shots at him most of the time-anything to rattle his ridiculously staid cage-and judging by how quickly he usually jumped into the fray, he wasn't averse to trading jabs with her, either.
"Sorry about that. I got caught up with one of the Jones-Smythe girls," Elizabeth said as she rejoined Violet.
Violet focussed on her friend, turning her back on the prig across the room. "Can we go yet?"
Elizabeth's lips twitched. "You know we can't. They haven't given the speeches yet."
"So? No one will notice if we slip out. We paid for our tickets, they have our money. That's the bit they're really interested in."
"Behave. It's not that bad."
"E, be real. These people are the walking dead." Violet's gaze swept over the well-dressed crowd attending the Heart Foundation's annual fundraiser. "Older than Moses, richer than God and more boring than a truckload of accountants."
Elizabeth laughed, then immediately lifted a hand to her mouth to hide her smile, almost as though she was afraid someone would take her to task for being amused by Violet's irreverence.
Violet eyed her friend with fond frustration. In all the years she'd known Elizabeth she'd only seen her really let her hair down a handful of times. She was always on her guard, always careful, always elegant and considerate and good-more so now than ever with her wedding to Mr. Stuffed Shirt looming on the horizon.
"You look really beautiful tonight, in case I didn't say so before," Violet said impulsively, reaching out to touch the silk of Elizabeth's slate blue sheath dress.
With her deep blue eyes, pale blonde hair and delicate bone structure, Elizabeth was the epitome of a cool, reserved English rose. So many people were fooled into believing her coolness ran more than skin deep, but she was hands down the most passionate, big-hearted person Violet knew.
Pity Elizabeth felt the need to hide all that passion from most of the important people in her life.
Elizabeth waved a dismissive hand. "You're the stand out, Vi. You always are. That dress is amazing."
Violet smoothed a hand down the side of her red velvet Flamenco-style dress and struck a pose so that she showed plenty of fishnet-clad leg through the slit in the skirt. Convention had it that redheads shouldn't wear red-too much of a good thing and all that-but Violet had never been big on adhering to convention. She'd worn her deep red hair in a cascading up-do tonight, and matched her lipstick to her dress.
"Thought I'd give the Heart Foundation some bang for their buck," she said. "Test out a few pacemakers."