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The heel of my hand finds my forehead and I audibly groan. “Oakley, that doesn’t even make any sense.”
“Sure it does,” he argues, pointing to each of his tattooed fingers. “Back in a…” He sticks up his pot plant pinky and waggles his eyebrows. “Haze.”
For a moment, I think about placating him and saying it’s awesome…but that would be a boldfaced lie.
“That’s dumb.” I get off his lap. “Let’s haul that guy back in here so he can fix this mess.”
“It’s perfect.” He stands. “I got the thing I love most in this world.”
A weary sigh escapes me, because of course he did. “Weed.”
His expression falters and he holds my gaze. “Just because I can’t have it anymore doesn’t mean I love it any less.”