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“How did you even get into this kind of thing?” I ask him. “It’s obvious you’re passionate about it.”

Callan shrugs again. “Drawing was the one thing I could count on when I was younger. I was in foster care, and that meant nothing was ever permanent. I bounced around between homes, and all I could really depend on was having some pencils and paper to draw on. It made everything quieter and easier to deal with.”

“Oh,” I breathe. I wasn’t expecting him to open up that much. I thought he’d give some generic answer, aimed at getting me to stop prying into his life, but he must feel so relaxed when he’s drawing that he’s fine with telling me these things. Or at least he’s not so guarded about it.

“Tattoos are pretty permanent too, I guess,” I murmur.

“In their way. You can get them removed, but there’s always the memory there. It’s not as easy to get rid of a tattoo as it is to kick a kid out of your house or turn your back on them. And even if you get one as a snap decision, you still have to sit with it for the time it takes to do the tattoo. You’ll feel every bit of that choice. I liked the idea of that when I was younger. Did an apprenticeship when I turned eighteen and never looked back.”

The marker curves over my wrist now, Callan drawing arcing petals that just brush the back of my hand. I can’t imagine getting a tattoo so visible, but it’s beautiful the way he’s drawn it now.

I lean in closer, trying to see if I can figure out what kind of flower he’s drawing, and Callan leans in as well, turning my wrist in his hand. His fingers are so sure, like he’s done this a thousand times and knows exactly how to touch me and move me to get me where he wants me. It’s very attractive, but we are way too close right now for me to be having that kind of reaction.

Callan looks up at me, and for a second I worry he can read it all on my face. His eyes meet mine, and I’m going to try for a smile to try to show him that I appreciate that he’s been so willing to share.

I have no idea how to say that without sounding cheesy as hell, so this is the next best thing. But for a moment, I’m caught by his gaze. This close, I can see that his eyes aren’t just grey the way I assumed they were. There’s blue in there, pale and striking, and it’s actually beautiful. His hair is falling into those eyes, and my fingers itch to reach up and brush it back.

Before I can do something stupid, Callan seems to realize how close we are, and it’s like all at once he remembers that he doesn’t like me and this is not something that he does with people he doesn’t like.

It’s like watching something slam shut, the walls going back up in front of me. All that cautious openness is gone, shuttered and packed away. He lets go of my arm and leans back, jamming himself against the car door like he can’t get away from me fast enough. He turns his head to look out the window, capping his marker and dropping it back in his bag.

I guess that’s the end of that conversation.

It feels like whiplash, honestly. One minute he’s willing to talk and the next it’s like staring down a stone fortress.

Ares meets Callan’s eyes in the rearview mirror, but Callan looks away first. “We should try to push to make it to Minneapolis by tonight,” Callan says.

Tate shakes his head, interjecting. “That would be a big push. The roads are getting worse, and once it gets dark, it’ll be even harder to see. We’ll end up in a ditch if we try to make it that far.”

Ares makes a noise of agreement. There’s some debate between the three of them, and they decide that we’ll try to find somewhere in the next couple of hours to stop for the night, before the roads get too bad.

The rest of the drive is tense. Ares has both hands on the steering wheel, and his back is hunched as the snow starts to fall harder. The windshield wipers are a constant sound, sweeping away the wet and the snow before it can get too thick and obscure Ares’ vision.

Tate spots a sign for an exit that seems to have a lot of accommodations and we pull off there.

“We should do a quick grocery run,” he says. “If I have to eat one more diner burger, I think I’m going to throw myself into a pile of snow and let the weather take me.”

“Okay, Mr. Bougie,” Ares mutters, but he starts driving in the direction of the closest store all the same.

“It’s not about being bougie. It’s about wanting to eat a vegetable before my insides forget what they feel like.”

There’s more back and forth between them, and Tate finds a place that rents cottages out to people who want to come to small towns like this to spend the winter holidays in the snow and cold. We grab groceries and then make our way to the cottage.

Everyone seems tired and ready to be out of the car by the time we pull in. Callan’s door is open before the car has even been turned off, and he practically hurls himself out of it. All I can do is watch with a wince.

I look down at the designs that are still on my arm, confused and honestly a little hurt. What the hell happened?

21

BRYNN

The plus side is we have a much bigger place to stay in this time. It’s not going to be the four of us crammed on top of each other. The cottage is small, but cozy, and I try to focus on that as we unload our bags and groceries and get settled in.

Tate takes control of the kitchen, hauling the grocery bags in and unpacking them with a critical eye. He’s on the phone while he does it, the phone between his ear and shoulder while he moves around the unfamiliar kitchen with practiced ease.

He’s taken a few calls while we’ve been traveling, and the little bit I’ve heard of his conversations has all sounded very serious and official. I get the impression that he’s talking to someone, maybe various people, about his upcoming restaurant, putting things in order and making decisions about what should happen when.

He doesn’t seem stressed about it, and when he gets off the phone now, he digs a bottle of whiskey out of one of the bags and grins.