Saint slipped out of the chapel, weaving between us with a stare that made me feel like we’d been caught naked. And then I pictured Locke naked, his brawny tattooed limbs tangled with Orla’s pale Irish skin. His big hands on her body, and on mine. I had this fantasy about watching them together, but more and more, I’d begun to wonder how it would feel to be caught between them. Images bombarded my brain. I tried to take them all in, but I was too tired to keep up with my wild imagination.
