had finally tarnished, but he still looked better than the average person. His hair was still thick and shiny, even when it was a ruffled mess. His body was still unbelievably ripped and gorgeously toned, even when he was dressed down and looked like he’d shoved his dinner in his face while driving eighty on the interstate. His face still looked like it’d been carved by a master sculptor, even when it was tearstained and slightly haggard. An unkempt Ry Archer was still the best-looking guy I’d ever seen in person. And I liked him better when his human side was showing.
I had to remind myself he was absolutely not my type. Not back when I ended up in bed with him, and not now. No matter how quickly he softened my hardened heart.
I never understood how a guy whose father owned and operated one of the biggest and most well-known tattoo shops in the US could be so clean-cut and proper. It wasn’t that Ry didn’t have any ink, but he definitely didn’t embrace the form of self-expression the way a lot of the older kids had who had grown up running around the different tattoo shops our parents either worked in or frequented. He could be covered in beautiful, colorful designs that made him stand out even when he was covered up in a football uniform. Instead, he only had one complicated, black and gray image that covered one of his muscular arms.
I thought it was simple and boring. My dad, who was covered in ink from all over the world, reminded me it was just as bad to judge someone for how normal they looked as it was to make assumptions based on how they decided to decorate their body. It wasn’t my place to question why Ry did or didn’t let his father put his famous and highly sought-after work all over him… but I did it anyway. Mostly because I felt like I needed to question everything Ry did.
The boy was beyond confusing.
So was the way I felt about him.
Because, while Aston Wheeler might be his first love and the one he picked as his perfect match… I was his first everything else… and he was my one and only.
Ry
I WASN’T SURE what time it was when I finally managed to get my eyes open the next day. I felt a little like I’d been hit by a two-hundred-fifty-pound linebacker or a semi-truck. My head hurt the same way it did when I had too much to drink and was forced to get up early the following day for practice. I rubbed my eyes and swung my legs off the unfamiliar and seriously lumpy couch. I had no recollection of anything happening after falling apart as soon as I saw Bowe. It seemed like she somehow hauled me inside her home. That couldn’t have been an easy task considering our size difference.
Looking around her space, one thing immediately became clear. Even if you didn’t know a thing about her, you would know you were standing in the home of a musician. There were various types of guitars, both electric and acoustic, hung on the walls and leaning against furniture. An electric keyboard took up one whole corner of the small living room. The computer setup where a dining table should be had all kinds of gadgets for mixing and tweaking sound, as well as an array of expensive-looking headphones and microphones. The place wasn’t exactly homey, but rather looked like the inside of a recording studio, and very much reflected Bowe’s number one passion.
The girl had been telling anyone who would listen that she was going to be a superstar since she started talking.
I dragged my hands down my face and got an unpleasant whiff of myself when I lifted my arms. Now that I was no longer operating in a haze of heartbreak, I slightly regretted my rash decision to take off in the middle of the night with zero plans or forethought. I hadn’t even packed a bag or brought anything that would make a few nights away from home comfortable.
Fortunately, I was the overly prepared type and kept a loaded gym bag in my truck, so I should be able to get by until I hit up a big box store for essentials. After collecting my duffel from the truck and cleaning out the trash that lingered from the drive, I picked my way through Bowe’s tiny house until I found the