He’s got neck tatts. After Clint, I’m over people with tatts for life.” I pull back, breathing roughly, as I undo one button of my shirt, then another. “Then I’ve got bad news for you, Clarke.” I shake off my shirt hastily, tossing it aside. “Because I’ve got ink.” Tallulah’s mouth falls open. “Fuuuck,” she groans. Her hand comes to my shoulder, to the mountains and evergreens, the water running through it, spilling toward my pec. “Deal-breaker?” I ask. She shakes her head quickly. “Never mind. Tatts are fine. Great, actually.”
