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His suffering is a grand show of colorful sparks, a salvo of bright light and thunderous sound.
“Sloane is probably holed up in her house with a smutty book and her demonic cat.
She kisses me with the kind of fevered desperation that makes me feel not just wanted. Or needed. It’s as though she craves me.
“Sure. Just keep my brother out of the whiskey. He’ll start singing ‘The Rocky Road to Dublin’ and it’s bad. It’s so feckin’ bad. He’s got a voice that’ll make Satan weep.” “Give Rowan all the whiskey. Got it.” “Christ Jesus.”
I pretend to be confused. She does not pretend to be infuriated.
“The math. It ain’t mathin’.”
“More worried than if I’d suddenly said, ‘Sloaney, I just realized I’m madly in love with Lachlan Kane and we’re going to get hitched’?” Sloane blinks. Tilts her head. Calculates. “No. All options are shit.”
“Really? You hate him? Because you look like you want to climb him like a tree.”
“It’s bad luck to see the bride before the wedding ceremony.” “Is it? Huh.” Lachlan runs a hand over his freshly shaved face, rings glinting in the October sun. “You mean it can get worse?” “In the most loving way possible, fuck off,”
“Wedding night, Lark,” Sloane says as we walk hand in hand toward the city hall entrance. “You’re supposed to go fuck your husband, remember? Not have two martinis and start crying on a stranger.” “I do not do that. I’m an adorable drunk.” Sloane snorts as we pass through the doors and into the lobby. Our heels clack against the floor and echo off the stark walls and vaulted ceiling. “Either adorably happy or adorably weepy. Fifty-fifty chance of happy Lark or sad Lark. One hundred percent chance of singing and tears.”
She laughs and teases and smacks a gold star sticker on Sloane’s dimple when she makes a joke I don’t get about cookies-and-cream ice cream that drains the color from Rowan’s face.
That bloody dimple flashes next to her lip. It’s like her bat signal for mischief.
“Lark Montague might be cute as a button, all shiny happy ra-ra cheerleader shit, but bitch is fucking vindictive. I love her to death and beyond, but let’s just say that particular unicorn doesn’t shit rainbows.”
Rowan points his fork toward her. “She rigged a glitter bomb in my car for the time I made Sloane cry and told her to go home. I spent a grand getting the car detailed and I still find glitter on a daily basis.”
“Somehow, that’s what I expected, and yet I’m still surprised. What a feckin’ conundrum.”
“Thank you for this attempt,” I say as I pour the coffee down the drain, “but it’s basically the devil in liquid form and now we have to exorcise the sink. In nomine Patri, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti.”
“Told you I would be fine.” “Shut up. It’s been like, five minutes. Plenty of time for you to fuck it up.”
“And pizza. If he orders pizza, we’re feckin’ leaving.”
“Fucking the nanny, how utterly unoriginal.”
“You might like this. I hear the history of dryer lint is a riveting tale.” “I can’t wait to fall asleep in record time.”
“Stop right there, Lachlan Kane. You will not Keanumatize me into forgiveness. That is fucking blasphemous.”
She’ll think I’m lovesick and pining, though I’ve come to accept that’s probably true.
The look of pure mortification on Lachlan’s face is delectable.
“Death’s Obsession.”
“You’re doing good. So fucking brave.”
“That’s my girl.”
I just figured, maybe you needed to hear it. Maybe I’m wrong. But if you’re like me, I don’t love you any less. Not one bit. And maybe you can tell me about it sometime.
I’ve somehow regressed into some teenage version of myself, and even that guy had more game than me. And Lark revels in it. Of course.
“Lachlan Kane is an ass man. Good to know.”
“Let’s go, Batman. The back door awaits,
She winks. I feckin’ die.
“It’s called ‘Ruinous Love.’”
“I’m not your demure little duchess. I’m your fucking whore, understand?”
“Red means …?” “Stop.” “Orange means?” “Slow down.” “Green means?” “Fuck me and fill me with your cum.”
This woman is mine.
And I devour her like I’m going to consume her soul.
“Of course I’m coming back,” I say as I fold the covers down for her to slip beneath them. “I think you’d murder me and sew my skin into a chew toy if I permanently left with your dog.”
