My brows jump. “So it’s going to happen?” I raise my hands. “Just for clarification. Because it’s important that it does happen—I want it to happen, I mean.” I’m word vomiting, and I stop as Donnelly strolls into the kitchen. He carries two woolen tartan blankets, plaid with a red base and deep green lines. “Want what to happen?” he asks us. “Nothing,” I say. “Absolutely nothing to happen. It was a figure of speech.” Donnelly frowns. “Really? ‘Cause I thought you were talking about sex.” He walks off ever so casually like he didn’t just explode a miniature bomb at my feet.
Lmao
