rake one hand through my hair, and he suddenly captures my wrist, his brown eyes narrowing. “When did you get this done?” He’s looking at my new tat, and I feel sheepish as I answer, “Couple days after I left camp.” Rough fingertips skim the line of black ink. “What are these coordinates for?” I’m not surprised he’s figured it out. My man is smart. “Lake Placid,” I tell him. His eyes lock with mine. “I see.” He clears his throat, but when he speaks again, his voice is still lined with gravel. “You really do love me, huh?” “Always have.” I swallow hard. “Always will.”
