“Was your marriage annulled? If so, it’s like you get a do-over.”
“Just because you get an annulment doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.” I clench my fists. “What kind of stupid rule is that, anyway? If you’re going to put on a white dress and have a minister marry you, you’re married. Even if it only lasts for less than twenty-four hours. If I ever get a tattoo, it would say…” My voice trails off as I feel my nails digging into the palms of my hands.
“Say what?” Celeste asks.
“Never mind,” I say, slowly unclenching my fists. “It’s not like I’m going to get a tattoo, anyway. They’re too permanent.”
Celeste furrows her brow. “That’s odd, considering you’re a tattoo artist.”
I grin. “That’s me . . . odd. Anyway, let’s talk about your tattoo. There are all different kinds of styles to choose from. I can show you some pictures.”
She nods. “That sounds like a good idea. I know that I want it to say ‘floss’ but I’m not sure what style to do it in.”
“Floss? That’s cute. Is it a nickname? What Ernie called you?”
Celeste looks at me blankly. “Nickname? No, ‘floss’ as in ‘floss your teeth.’ I figure it would be a good reminder.”
“You want to tattoo a reminder about…dental hygiene on your body?” I stammer. “Wouldn’t it be easier to tape a note on the mirror?”
“No, don’t be silly. I’d never notice that. But something tattooed, well, I’d see that every day when I get out of the shower.”
“You sure you don’t want something like a flower or a rose, maybe? Or a cat? Cats are really popular.”
“No, dear. I’m going to go with ‘floss.’ It’s far more practical than a tattoo of a cat.”
I rub my temples. This is possibly the strangest tattoo that I’ve ever heard, and I’ve heard some real doozies. “Did you have any other ideas?”
“Well, sometimes I forget to take my blood pressure pills and there’s the issue with my dishwasher—”
Before she can tell me what kind of dishwasher-related tattoo she’s considering, we’re interrupted by a commotion on the deck below us. I lean over the railing and see a woman jabbing her finger at a waiter while complaining at the top of her lungs about the fact that her strawberry daiquiri tastes like . . . wait for it . . . strawberries.
I’ve dealt with her type before when I was a waitress at the country club. I’m impressed with how the waiter is managing to keep his cool. If this happened to me, I would have told the obnoxious lady exactly where to go. The kind of place that’s hot all year round, if you get my drift. Keeping my mouth shut was never my strong suit. Probably explains why my waitressing gig only lasted three days. Longer than my marriage, so there is that.
The woman shoves the glass into the waiter’s hands, sloshing its contents everywhere. As she storms off, I call out, “Hey, aren’t you going to clean that up, lady?”
I gasp as the waiter looks up. It’s the same guy from earlier in the evening. The one with the sandy-brown hair that’s softer than kitten fur. I feel my face grow warm as he locks his hazel eyes with mine.
“Who’s that?” Celeste whispers. “He’s cute.”
“I have no idea,” I say softly.
“I think you better find out,” she says. “Because I’m pretty sure he just winked at you.”
* * *
I hope you enjoyed this sneak peek of Smitten with Croissants. If you want to find out more about Mia’s story, grab a copy at your favorite retailer HERE.
Smitten with Ravioli Page 18