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I’m not sure who's technically the third wheel anymore, but at least it’s not me.
I look in the backseat and see Soren has buckled in the dead body, too. Lord forbid he gets a head wound in a collision.
It would be very tempting if this was 15th-century Romania, but I don’t need Soren to kill minimum wage workers who fuck up my Taco Bell order.
I could handle a bad date and a murder, apparently. But being proposed to while my perversion is revealed? Too much. God, please pick another soldier; this one has had enough battles for one night. Ugh.
There’s a brief moment where I consider gaslighting him. But apparently, as a couples therapist, I can’t make myself.
“Can I wait in the car?” I groan. “With the corpse?” He raises an eyebrow. “Easier company. Or maybe you can reconsider killing me.” I want to dive off a cliff.
It’s dark, and I’m beyond exhausted. I hardly care about anything other than I’m currently safe, and he’s promised there’s an actual bed and not a hole in the ground where I put the lotion on my skin.
“Buckle up,” he says. Soren turns up Mariah Carey while I have a crisis of morality in the passenger seat.
“How did he go from client to husband?” My mom asks. Well, he killed my fucking date and told me I had to marry him.
“This guy? No way. He’s a teddy bear. Harmless. I mean, look at him.” Everyone looks at the six-foot-four Nordic nightmare.
“Why? Please tell me we aren't out of wrapping paper,” he groans. “We already ran out of boxes yesterday.” I look over at the pile of “presents” he wrapped, and some seem oddly shaped like calves and feet. I let out an exasperated sound.
“Oh no,” he rasps. “I’ve come in my therapist.”
