Releasing my hands, her touch drifts beneath my sweatshirt. She teases my nipples with her fingertips, making my hips lurch again beneath her. “I want to see that tattoo, Jamie.”

I smile against her kiss, and then I hoist us upright. Bea yelps in surprise, holding on to my shoulders until I reach behind my head, dragging off my sweatshirt but leaving a T-shirt beneath.

Bea scowls. “That was a cheap trick.”

I grin. “Your face. You were so sure you were getting the goods—ack!” I shove her hand out of my armpit, which she’s just tickled. “No more.”

“Then stop torturing me,” she mutters, squirming on my lap.

I pin her hips so she won’t move again. “Do much more of that, and the rocket will indeed be launching.”

Her laughter fills the room.

But once I’ve peeled off my shirt, Bea’s not laughing anymore.

· THIRTY-THREE ·

Bea

I stare at it, every drip of dark ink marking his skin, right over his heart. My fingertips hover over the delicate flower, the bee that perches on its petals, the words above that I can’t translate. “La vie . . .” I peer up at Jamie, who watches me closely.

“ ‘La vie est une fleur dont l’amour est le miel,’ ” he says quietly. The words fill his throat and roll off his tongue, rich and soft. His French is beautiful. “ ‘Life is a flower of which love is the honey.’ ” His hands drift along my waist, lower down my back, bringing us closer. “I realized what was missing in that poem, between the flower and the honey . . . what was missing in my life.”

Taking my finger, he brings it to the bee inked right over his heart. “You.” Wordless, lost in emotion, I trace softly around the tattoo, careful of his still-tender skin. “You asked me what ‘mon cœur’ means. Why I called you that last night.” Our gazes collide, his hand settles over mine as he pins it against his chest. “It means ‘my heart.’ ”

“Jamie . . .” I press a kiss to his chest, my heart swelling. “That’s obscenely romantic.”

He makes a sound of quiet satisfaction, burying his nose in my hair and breathing me in, then gently guiding me back so he can see and touch me. I raise my arms, and he knows what I want. Slowly, watching me, he grips the hem of my shirt and lifts it off, over my head. And then his hand settles over my pounding heart, too, the tiny bumblebee above my left breast.

“I knew it.” He grins.

“Quite the gamble,” I tell him. “What if it was a cicada?”