She’s taken off my sweatshirt because it’s warm in here, revealing a soft emerald-green T-shirt draped over her body. I slide up the sleeve, tracing her elaborate flower tattoo on one shoulder. And for the first time, I see the flowers’ leaves are actually pages of books. “What does this mean?” I ask her.

Bea glances down from her indoor stargazing, watching my fingertip swirl over her skin. “My parents. My mom’s flowers she loves to grow, my dad’s love of books. You should see my dad’s library. That was locked up the night of the party, and I never got to show it to you last night.”

“You and your bloodthirsty mother were too busy annihilating us at cards.”

She snorts a laugh and peers up at me. “Mom’s always been like that with games. Sorry if we got a little carried away.”

I shake my head. “It was wonderful. I wouldn’t have changed it for the world.”

“But I should have shown you the library. You’d have loved it.”

I tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear, searching her eyes. “There’ll be another time, other nights there . . . I hope.”

Her smile brightens her face. She kisses my palm as it cups her cheek. “There better be.”

Our eyes hold as my fingertip traces the dotted line down her neck, to her other shoulder, where more designs weave together. Among vines and flowers, I spy a stack of books, a camera, a palette and paintbrush, and three delicate bluebirds huddled on a branch.

I don’t have to ask this time for Bea to know I’m curious.

“The books are for Jules. She’s a bookworm like Daddy. Loves her romance novels. One day she’ll write one.” She arches an eyebrow. “Didn’t see that coming, did you? The meddling matchmaker loves romance.”

I laugh quietly, my finger tracing the tattoos’ path.

“The camera,” she says, “is for Kate. She’s a photojournalist, got her first camera when she was five, and lives with that thing wrapped around her neck. The palette and paintbrush are for me, of course.”

“And the birds?” I ask.

Bea smiles. “My sisters, all three of us. Our parents call us ‘birdies.’ I don’t know why. They just always have.”

My touch wanders from her tattoo to her shoulders again. I rub the taut muscles, making Bea’s head fall against my chest with a contented sigh.

“When do I get to see your tattoo?” she asks quietly. Her hands slide up and down my thighs, weaving figure eights higher and higher.

“Tonight.”

Bea glances up at me and smiles, barefaced from her shower and so lovely. “Really?”

“Really.” I hold her tight, a surge of vulnerability and love knotting my heart.

She tips her head, examining me as I examine her. “What is it?”

“Just . . . watching you,” I tell her.

Her smile deepens. “Why?”