“The guy doing your tattoo was checking you out way too much,” he says, his voice low with annoyance. “He was doing his job.” I playfully smack Devon’s chest and he shrugs. “His job is to tattoo, not stare at my girl with goo-goo eyes whilst I’m in the room.” Heat fills my body at his possessiveness, and I can’t ignore that he called me his girl. “Your girl?” “Always have been, Sweetness,” he says as we walk up to his bike. Always have been. It reminds me of the nickname he gave me, which he’s been calling me since the second time we spoke. “Devon, why do you call me Sweetness?” “Because you
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