Leather & Lark (The Ruinous Love Trilogy, #2) (49)
“Are they really that good?” Lachlan had asked.
I gave him a suspicious glance as he loomed in my periphery. “You’ve never tried one?”
When he shook his head, a little sliver of disappointment wedged into my thoughts. If the situation were reversed, I’d have tried every flavor by now so I’d know my adversary better. Just like I’ve googled everything about his studio, Kane Atelier. I’ve seen every photo in Lachlan’s portfolio and read every testimonial for his business. I scoped out his social media posts too—they’re mostly about his different leather projects, with the occasional scuba diving photo dump. I mean, I only really care that he knows fuck-all about me because it’ll make it that much harder to convince my family that we’re truly in love. That’s one hundred percent the only reason.
“Well,” I’d said with a shrug, “I’d like to think so. But if you ever decide to try a Montague Muffin, go to the flagship store on Weybosset Street in Providence. It’s always better than the mass-produced stuff.”
Lachlan lingered as though he wanted to start another conversation, probably about the elevator, or Claire, or maybe my cache of trophies, all of which are absolutely the last thing I want to discuss with him. So I shifted my headphones over my ears and tried to concentrate on the sheet music in front of my folded knees. I strummed my guitar until Lachlan finally disappeared.
It must have been nearly five when I finally fell asleep in the round chair, and it was just after six when I awoke with the guitar still resting on my lap.
And now I’m trying to unfold my legs.
I can’t feel my feet. Or my ass. Or one of my hands, which spent the last hour trapped between my leg and the body of the guitar. I pull my headphones off and groan, a sound that dissolves into an exhausted whimper as I rub my eyes.
When I open them, a cup of coffee hovers in view, clutched by a tattooed hand.
“Didn’t want to wake you with the espresso machine,” Lachlan says as I give him a single eye, the other still unwilling to face reality. “This is the freeze-dried shite, but I thought it might help while you get your bearings.”
As I accept the cup, I study him. He seems serious today. There’s not a single teasing note in his voice. He looks down at me like I’m dying and he doesn’t know what to do. A deep crease has formed between his brows and even after I take a sip of the vile brown liquid that I refuse to call coffee, he still hovers, some kind of pent-up anxiety rolling from him in waves despite his attempts to cover it. He even whisks the guitar from my grip when I try to set it on the floor.
“You didn’t go to bed last night?” Lachlan asks, his eyes flicking across my face.
“No. Guess not.”
“You didn’t go the night before last either.”
“Your observation skills have finally improved since the first time we met.”
Lachlan sighs. “I already told you. I wasn’t wearing my glasses.”
I snap my fingers and give him a devious grin. “And I was wearing makeup. An infallible disguise,” I say as I place the mug on the side table and heave myself out of the chair.
Lachlan’s eye roll nearly rivals Sloane’s and warmth spreads in my chest. Irritating him is even more energizing than the disgusting sludge I take with me to the kitchen.
“Thank you for this attempt,” I say as I pour the coffee down the drain, “but it’s basically the devil in liquid form and now we have to exorcise the sink. In nomine Patri, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti.”
“You know Latin?”
I snort and rinse out the mug. “I know ‘Constantine, John Constantine.’” As expected, when I glance over my shoulder at him, Lachlan seems clueless. “You haven’t actually seen Constantine? I thought you were joking when you asked the other day, but honestly that does not surprise me one bit that you have no idea what I’m talking about. Batch oven for you.”
“I thought you were going to say you learned it at that boarding school where you met Sloane. Ashborne, right?”
“Yeah.” A brittle smile forces its way across my lips. I’m surprised he didn’t rib me back. “Ashborne.”
“You didn’t graduate there though,” Lachlan says as he sits and smooths a hand across the surface of my new coffee table. I give him a suspicious look as I start grinding a fresh batch of espresso beans. “Sloane told me a while back.”
“That’s right. We finished school at my aunt’s home with private tutors.”
“Why?”
I bark a laugh. “None of your business.”
“You don’t think that’s something I should know? We’re going to your parents’ place in what, six hours? And we barely know anything about each other. I’d kind of like to be convincing, yeah? I like the idea of not dying in the batch ovens.”
“Trust me when I tell you the subject of my Ashborne education will not be discussed at the dinner table.” The espresso machine hums and hisses as I make two drinkable Americanos. I take them back into the living room and sit across from Lachlan, absently remembering that I probably look like a reanimated corpse. I shrug it off and slide him a mug across the glittering resin. “You’re supposed to know stuff like my favorite movie. Constantine. Or if I get stage fright. I don’t, by the way. Or where I’d like to go on our honeymoon. If this was real, it would be Indonesia. I like orangutans.”