Happy Place(11)

“Wait, wait, wait,” I say. “You don’t date your friends? Who do you date, Wyn? Enemies? Strangers? Malevolent spirits who died in your apartment building?”

“It’s a good policy,” he says. “It keeps things from getting messy.”

“It’s dating, Wyn, not an all-you-can-eat barbecue buffet,” I say. “Although, from what I’ve heard, maybe for you they’re the same thing.”

He looks at me through his lashes and tuts. “Are you slut-shaming me, Harriet?”

“Not at all,” I say. “I love sluts! Some of my best friends are sluts. I’ve dabbled in sluttery myself.”

Another bar of moonlight briefly lights his eyes, paling them to smoky silver.

“Didn’t suit you?” he guesses.

“Never got the chance to find out,” I say.

“Because you fell in love,” he says.

“Because men never really picked me up.”

He laughs. “Okay.”

“I’m not being self-deprecating,” I say. “Once men get to know me, they’re sometimes interested, but I’m not the one their eyes go to first. I’ve made peace with it.”

His gaze slides down me and back up. “So you’re saying you’re slow-release hot.”

I nod. “That’s right. I’m slow-release hot.”

He considers me for a moment. “You’re not what I expected.”

“Three-dimensional and blue-haired,” I say.

“Among other things,” he says.

“I expected you to be Parth 2.0,” I admit.

His eyes narrow. “You thought I’d be better dressed.”

“Than a torn sweatshirt and jeans?” I say. “No such thing.”

He doesn’t seem to hear me, instead studying me with a furrowed brow. “You’re not slow-release hot.”

I look away, fumble the radio on as heat scintillates across my chest. “Yeah, well,” I say, “most people don’t start by seeing me naked before we’ve spoken.”

“It’s not about that,” he says.

I feel the moment his gaze lifts off me and returns to the windshield, but he’s left a mark: from now on, dark cliffs, wind racing through hair, cinnamon paired with clove and pine—all of it will only mean Wyn Connor to me. A door has opened, and I know I’ll never get it shut again.

Regency era or not, in a lot of ways, he ruins me.





5





REAL LIFE

Monday


WE’RE TRAPPED IN the kitchen for the length of three more toasts to undying love before Wyn finally asks our friends to excuse us and pulls me away to “settle in.”

Kimmy purrs throatily, and Parth high-fives her for it, which makes Cleo shudder because high fives are her personal fingernails-on-a-chalkboard.

As Wyn and I are all but running up the steps, we silently struggle for control of my suitcase.

By which I mean, I’m carrying it until he pulls it easily out of my hand and shifts it to his opposite hand, where I can’t reach it.

“I’ve got it,” he says.

“Stop trying to be charming,” I hiss. “No one’s watching.”

“I’m not,” he says.

“Are too,” I say.

“No.” He jerks my bag further out of reach as I lunge for it. “I’m doing this for the sheer pleasure of annoying you.”

“If that’s all,” I say, “then you don’t have to try so hard. Your mere presence is doing the trick.”

“Yeah, well,” he says, “you’ve always made me want to aim a little higher, Harriet.”

We’re nearly home free when Sabrina appears behind us at the top of the stairs. “I forgot to tell you. We put you in the big bedroom this time.”

Wyn and I not only screech to a halt, cartoon-style, but he snatches my hand, like if he doesn’t, Sabrina might scream and drop her champagne in shock at discovering us in a strange reversed flagrante delicto, everyone fully clothed and no one touching.

At least he didn’t go straight for a handful of ass.

“The big bedroom,” he repeats, his hand relocating to the small of my back. I lean into him so hard he has to catch the wall with his shoulder so we both don’t topple over.

I wonder if we look even one percent like a couple in love, or if we’re fully projecting “rivals in a spaghetti western showdown.”

“We’re always in the kids’ room,” I say.

That’s what Sabrina’s family calls it, because it has two twin beds, rather than one king, like each of the other two bedrooms.

“Cleo and Kimmy offered to take it this time,” Sabrina says. “You two only get to see each other like once a month—we’re not going to make you spend your visit in separate beds.”

As long as Wyn and I have been together, we’ve pushed the twins together.

“We don’t mind,” I say.

Sabrina rolls her eyes. “You never mind. You’re the queen of not minding. But in this case, we do. It’s a done deal. Clee and Kim already unpacked.”

“But—”

Wyn cuts me off: “Thanks, Sabrina. That was thoughtful of you all.”