“I wasn’t cursing,” she says, her tiny brows furrowed. “I was telling you what Mommy says.”
“You still cursed.” I tsk. “Dollar.”
“Fine.” She huffs, pulling the dollar out of her pocket and dropping it into my hand.
“Thank you,” I say with an overzealous grin.
“Why do you keep calling me Mini-Q?” she asks, one of her brows raised. “My name is Kinsley Elizabeth Crawford, but Uncle Jax is lazy and calls me K.”
“Because you look and act like a mini version of your mom…Quinn,” I say, emphasizing the Q. “Get it? Mini-Q?”
She tilts her head to the side and glares, proving my point.
“Now, what tattoo do you want?”
“Mommy read me a book about the planets last night. Can you tattoo them on me?”
“Sure!” I pull my phone out and google planets. It only takes me a second to find a cool image. “What colors?”
“The colors the planets are,” she says, dragging her sleeve up. “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”
“Yes,” I say with laugh. “Alright, colors matching the planets. Got it.”
When I take her tiny arm in my hand, she says, “Wait, you have to prep me first.”
Stifling my laugh, I nod. “You’re right. Sorry.” This little girl is too fucking much.
She lets out a loud sigh. “I really hope you’re good. My uncles and Willow never forget to prep me.”
Twenty minutes later, I finish Kinsley’s tattoo, pretend to rub ointment on it, and cover it with plastic.
“Thank you.” She jumps down to check it out in the mirror, even though it’s on her arm so she could just look down. “It’s really pretty,” she says. “You should take a picture and add it to your book.”
“You’re welcome.” Pulling out my phone, I snap a picture of her arm. “There, I’ll get it printed and added today.”
Just as I’m finishing capping up my markers, Quinn enters the room. Her eyes go straight to her daughter, as if I’m not even in the room. “Wow, Kinsley! What a cool tattoo.” She takes her daughter’s arm in her hands and admires it.
“It’s all the planets,” Kinsley states matter-of-factly.
“I can see that. Who tattooed it?” she asks.
“Lachlan,” Kinsley tells her. Quinn’s gaze bounces over to me, finally acknowledging I’m in the room.
“Really?” Quinn asks. “I thought only your uncles and Willow were allowed to give you tattoos.”
Feeling the need to gloat that I’ve won her mini-version over, I say, “She trusts me.”
Quinn lets out a loud snort, then quickly covers her nose like she can’t believe she just did that.
“I’m going to go show Auntie Willow my tattoo,” Kinsley says, running out of the room. “Bye, Lachlan!”
Quinn looks from me to the door like she’s either willing her daughter to come back, or scared to be in the same room as me. Both leave me grinning. I make her nervous.
“Snort all you want, but it’s the truth.” I step toward her, encroaching on her space. “I’m a trustworthy guy.”
“I bet you are,” she says with a bit of a laugh. “I better go…” She waves her hand in the air, not even bothering to finish her sentence.
“Wait,” I say, sliding in front of her to block her only way out. “Since I’m such a trustworthy guy, how about you let me take you out sometime?”
“No,” she says flatly, not even taking a second to consider it.
“No? Just like that? Why not?”
“Umm…” She places her purple-painted fingertip to her chin and pretends to think for a second before she says, “For starters, I’m old enough to be your mother.”
I laugh at that. Sure, she’s a few years older than me, but she’s definitely not old enough to be my mom.
“What are you, like…” I’m about to say a number and then remember women hate when people guess their age. What if I guess too old and offend her? She obviously thinks she’s way older than me.
“Go ahead,” she presses. “Say the number.”
“Thirty…one.” I was thinking thirty-three, so I went two years lower to be on the safe side.
She stares at me for a brief moment and then throws her head back in laughter. “Wow, thank you. I don’t know if you’re just bullshitting me to make me feel better, but thank you. You seriously made my day.”
“How close was I?” I’m assuming I went too low since she’s happy I thought she’s younger.
“You were off by eight years.” I quickly do the math in my head. She’s thirty-nine years old. Well, damn, I never would’ve guessed that. But that’s not going to deter me. Age is just a number and all that jazz.
“And you?” she asks with a knowing smirk.
“Thirty-seven,” I tell her, lying out my ass.
She laughs, knowing I’m full of shit. “Try again.”
“Fine…minus ten.”
I wait for her to do her own math, and once she does, her eyes bug out. “You’re twenty-seven? Jesus.” Her cheeks tint a light shade of pink, an indication I’ve already learned means she’s embarrassed.