Page 36 of Thanks for Coming Along
Eden’s heart warmed at the story. It was clear that Ronan had a deep connection with his family. She watched as Gordon’s needle moved smoothly over his skin, the low hum of the machine mixing with the soft rock playing in the background. Ronan's face was calm, but Eden could see the emotions flickering in his eyes—nostalgia, love, and maybe a bit of longing.
"That’s beautiful, Ronan," Eden whispered, squeezing his hand. She felt a lump in her throat, touched by the significance of the tattoo and the story behind it.
Eden couldn't help but feel a twinge of jealousy as she thought about her complicated relationship with her biological family. She knew she would never have a bond like that with them. For a moment, it stung—a sharp reminder of what she lacked. But then her thoughts shifted to Ingrid, the person who had stood by her side through thick and thin. Ingrid was her found family, the one who had truly understood her and accepted her for who she was. That bond, something they chose every day, felt even more special. The thought eased the knot in her stomach. It was more than enough for her.
As Gordon continued to work, Eden maintained her hold on Ronan's hand. He was right; she would use any excuse to touch him, taking any opportunity to feel the warmth of his hand in hers. It felt right, her hand in his. She glanced at their intertwined fingers, feeling a rush of emotions. Each squeeze, each subtle shift of his grip, sent a thrill through her. However risky, it was something she wasn't willing to let go of.
A few minutes later, Gordon finished Ronan’s tattoo. He wiped the excess ink from Ronan's arm, revealing the finished artwork. Eden's eyes followed every detail of the tattoo as if committing it to memory. It was a simple yet powerful design, and it suited Ronan perfectly. Ronan examined it closely with the handheld mirror, a faint smile gracing his lips.
"It's great. Thank you, Gordon," Ronan said sincerely, extending his hand to shake Gordon's. Gordon beamed with pride, accepting Ronan's handshake. Then Ronan pulled his shirt back on, much to her dismay.
After a quick photo session for Gordon’s tattoo shop’s Instagram, he gave them the rundown on how to take care of their tattoos. Once the payment was settled, she surprised him with a big hug, which seemed to catch Gordon off guard for a second. As she pulled away, she gave him a playful wink, leaving him standing there with wide eyes.
As they stepped out onto the sidewalk, Eden turned to Ronan with a grin.
"Your first tattoo. Hmm, not so clean-cut anymore," Eden said as she looked up at him, her eyes meeting his.
"I feel like I am corrupting you, Murphy," she added playfully. She couldn't resist running her fingers along the edge of the longboard he held, a teasing glint in her eyes as her fingertips brushed his knuckles.
"Oh honey, I'll be the one corrupting you if I have my way," he responded in a low, husky tone that sent shivers down her spine. There was something in his tone—raw, intense—that made her heart race. It sent a hot pulse to her lower belly.
Before she could react, he grabbed her hand, halting her teasing touch on the board. His face shifted, the playfulness replaced with something darker. He placed the longboard down with a sharp slap on the concrete.
“Grab on before I do something we both might regret,” he said, voice husky. His grip tightened around her hand, a promise hanging in the air. Eden caught the look in his eyes—serious, focused.
She slid her hand to his shoulder, ready to be pulled along.
As they moved together, the cool night air brushed against her skin, and she couldn’t help but feel the rush between them. It was like a high, this feeling of pushing limits, and she was starting to struggle with how much she could keep in check. Her mind was racing, thinking about everything she’d said, everything she’d done.
Every day, she woke up determined to tease him, to keep their back-and-forth going. She knew he liked it too, but something was holding him back. She couldn’t figure it out, and she didn’t want to push him too far, especially if it meant crossing a line they couldn’t come back from.
So, when they reached the car, she let Ronan take the lead in the quiet, their footsteps syncing without a word. Instead of saying anything else, she started the engine and switched on the radio, letting the music fill the space between them.
22
Eden
Over the past week, Ronan kept showing up to interview her at her house, but most of the time, they ended up completely off-track. They’d dive into random topics, laughing over things that had nothing to do with the interview. Hours flew by, and the camera would just sit there, forgotten in the background.
But there were moments when she’d catch something in his demeanor—like when she asked about his career. His answers would get a little guarded, and she’d see the tension in his shoulders. He’d hunch them slightly, like he was trying to protect himself from something. His hands would fidget too, as if he needed to distract himself from whatever was going on in his head. He did his best to hide it, but his eyes were another story. There was something there, something he didn’t want to acknowledge, and it was hard to ignore.
She couldn’t help but wonder why he’d agreed to take on her documentary. His usual work was international journalism—war zones, conflicts—big, serious stuff. Was he being forced to take a step back?
She felt like she knew Ronan, but there were still so many things about him she couldn’t figure out. He was a bit of a mystery—not just with his career, but also when it came to how he felt about her. There was this unspoken tension between them, something lingering in the air, but neither of them ever addressed it.
She wasn't acompletedoorknob; she could tell he was into her. His comments, the way his body language shifted when they were together—it was obvious. But there was also this hesitance in him, this reluctance to take things further, and she couldn’t help but wonder if it had to do with his career. Maybe he was worried about how it would look, especially with her past. She was far from perfect, and she wondered if he thought being involved with her would stain his image as a respected journalist.
She leaned against the kitchen wall, watching as Ronan sprinkled a pinch of salt into the bubbling bolognese. She quickly realized he wasn’t just a good cook—he was the kind of good cook that could make Gordon Ramsay pause, maybe even take a second bite. She was honestly impressed.
With a kitchen towel casually thrown over his shoulder, he was the picture of domestication. "Yes, make me dinner!" Her ovaries seemed to scream in feminine delight.Settle down, ladies.She mentally trampled the thoughts, trying to smother the twinge of pleasure that he was making her food.
She reminded herself that this was all professional. Ronan was a journalist. He was just indulging her for the sake of the project. Sure, he had made that comment at the carnival about limits, and that line he dropped after the tattoos—“Oh honey, I'll be the one corrupting you if I have my way”—had been lingering in her head ever since.
The line between colleagues and something more? Definitely starting to blur. She kept telling herself he probably saw her flirtation as part of the job, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d done some of his own flirting with her. The details of everything they’d said and done together were starting to get fuzzy.
A lot of things seemed to blur when she focused on Ronan. There he was, standing in her kitchen, actually cooking a meal—something more than just tossing a frozen dinner into the microwave like she usually did. She couldn't remember the last time someone had gone through the trouble of making her a homemade meal. Growing up, homemade meals were rare, and the memories of scrounging for food were ones she wasn't eager to share with him.
She heard the wine bottle open and saw Ronan pour merlot into two glasses. She grabbed some plates and served up the noodles with Bolognese sauce, then made her way to the dining table. Ronan followed, balancing the wine glasses and the rest of the bottle in his hands.
