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Carol had five children, but only two gave her wrinkles. They were my two favorite Atwoods.
Yeah, I was prickly when I was hungover. Okay, fine. All the time.
“Well, maybe I’ll see you around, Tristian.” “Hopefully not, John,”
I sure as shit couldn’t put Hermes—my underworld codename—on my passport, could I?
“Tell me about your job, Tris,”
“Bite me, John.”
“Tristian,” I murmured, carrying her across the parking lot in the direction of the staff cottages, “You could be capable of flying and I’d still be carrying you.”
Dammit, he was shirtless and only wore a loose pair of gray sweatpants. What a slut.
Of course Tris was the type of woman who took legal paperwork seriously. I bet she even read the fine print on terms and conditions while buying online.
This time, unlike every other time I’d broken into Tristian’s home, I didn’t take anything with me. This time, I left something behind. A small piece of my heart.
