“Crap,” he groans.
I lower my gaze so he won’t catch me ogling. “I assume youknow what it’s about.”
“Yeah.” He opens his eyes and rubs his face with a huge, broad hand, making the sleeve ride up and reveal the tail end of a tattoo—black abstract bands twisting and twirling around each other—and I wonder if they cover his entire arm. He blows out a breath through a closed mouth, making his lips sputter. “And now I’mthe one who has to tell you. Shit.”
It’s obvious that he doesn’t want to, and even though I’d finally like to know the story, I’m not about to force someone to do something they don’t want. “You don’t have to tell me.”
“Trust me. I really do.” He looks at me, gaze unwavering and steady, and I realize his eyes aren’t brown like I first thought; no, they’re a deep midnight blue and the opposite of my icy eyes that look almost white sometimes.
I make myself look away. “Why?”
“Because it concerns you.”