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her blond hair glowing in the sunlight in their kitchen, her eyes kind, looking like a saint, or, even worse, like Stevie Nicks, because how were you ever supposed to say no to Stevie Nicks?
Gwyn had no doubt that whoever he was, his ancestors had absolutely once stared down the business end of a guillotine. You didn’t get cheekbones like that without oppressing some peasants.
Sam, Cait, and Parker’s faces were practically glowing at the thought, their eyes going the full puppy dog,
“I was prepared for Rhys,” he muttered to himself. “How is this actually worse?”
Gwyn knew she must look as completely bonkers as she currently felt because Vivi, who had really seen some shit when it came to Gwyn, muttered a term in Welsh Gwyn had never heard her use before, her eyes wide.
Gwyn didn’t actually have a usual, she just liked saying that, and Sam liked making up various concoctions she thought could be Gwyn’s usual. Today’s was some kind of lavender tea situation with vanilla and cardamom,
It really was hard work being a matriarch.
Gwyn wasn’t sure she’d ever been so happy to leave a party, and given that she’d once had to go to a wedding reception where both the bride and the groom were her exes, that was saying something.
