The man is tall, about Beau’s height, but stockier with it. His face is rough-hewn—rawly attractive rather than classically handsome. He has elaborate, full-sleeve tattoos on both thickly muscled arms and his once-white T-shirt strains across his chest; it’s dirtied with some sort of black paint. Not that he seems the artistic type. Despite his stillness, his eyes hold a kind of dangerous turbulence that makes me uneasy . . . even as I wonder what kissing him might be like.
