“Is this okay?” Riley let go of his hand to stroke his face, to run the backs of her knuckles across his tensed brow.
Leaning back a little, Clark looked down as she tipped her chin up, giving him an unobstructed view of how she trusted him—completely.
“Yes. God, yes.” He pulled back, sank forward, gave her exactly what she asked for. Exactly what she needed.
They’d been rough with each other, parried for control both physically and emotionally, but this wasn’t that. He’d never felt anything like the sense of staggering wonder that came from being this close to someone you cared about so much, having it feel somehow impossible and right at the same time.
“I can’t believe I found you,” he said quietly, as she tumbled over the edge, falling apart in his arms. “I can’t believe you’re real.”
When at last he gave himself permission to come, the pleasure was so intense—staggering—his vision swam. Every other time with Riley had been good, better than good—the best he’d ever had—but this? This was different.
Just for us, she’d said.
He’d been happy before. Had won an egg and spoon race on sports day in primary school. Rode horses with his mom in the Lake District, her whoop of joy loud in his ears. He got into Oxford. Bought the camper and built the bookcase of his dreams with his own two hands.
None of it felt quite like Riley Rhodes in his arms, telling him she loved him, whispering it over and over against his lips, his cheek, his jaw. Like holding her, kissing her, without worrying it would be the only time he had permission—or the last.
Chapter Twenty-Two
They spent the night in a cozy rental cottage not far from the St. Andrews campus. With its rounded doorways and low ceilings, the place reminded Riley of a hobbit hole.
Clark bonked his head carrying in the pizza they ordered for dinner.
“This crust is terrible,” Riley said as she took a second slice. （Hey, it was still pizza.） She curled her legs up on the couch, her feet resting against Clark’s thigh where he sat beside her. “Come to Philadelphia and I’ll show you a real pizza.”
“All right,” Clark said easily, smiling at her as he picked off a mushroom and popped it in his mouth. “I will.”
Her pulse spiked.
“Really?” She lowered the slice back to her plate. Had he just casually announced he’d come visit her in America?
“Yeah,” he said, and then slightly less sure, “if you’ll have me, that is.”
She broke into a grin. “I’d love to have you.”
Clark kept his eyes on her as he took a long swallow of his beer.
“Oh, shut up.” Riley watched his throat bob and tried not to think about what else he might like to get his mouth on, lest she crawl across the sofa and ruin dinner.
（He did eat her out later. First in the shower, on his knees, and then again in the bed with his arm across her stomach, saying, “One more. Give me one more,” in a rough, desperate way that ensured she did.）
Only after the fact did Riley realize the curse didn’t come up once all night. It wasn’t on purpose, not a rule or even something either of them seemed to actively avoid—there were just so many other things to say.
Once they’d packed up the food, Clark insisted on asking her questions “now that he could.” He held her socked feet in his lap, tracing her arches with his thumb.
“What’s your middle name?”
Against her will, Riley giggled.
“Olivia.” It was very her—very them—to cover this stuff only after they’d bared their emotional and physical scars.
It made her feel good, cherished, that he seemed so hungry to know her. Not just the curse-breaking bit, but who she was beyond that. All her boring stuff seemed interesting to him.
“When’s your birthday?” She volleyed back when it was her turn.
They found out they were born on opposite ends of January—him on the fourth and her on the twenty-seventh.
“Maybe we could have a joint party.” She wanted to be brave, like him, saying he’d come visit. “Split the difference and do it somewhere around the fifteenth?”
At the implication that she wanted to make this work, keep it going, figure out the future even if things got messy—Clark glowed. There was no other word for it. His eyes and cheeks and smile all radiant.
Riley rubbed at the corner of his mouth, savoring it like a sap.
“I’m really glad we decided to stay here tonight.” Not least because if anyone in the village caught them gazing at each other like this, she’d expire on the spot.
“Wait.” He dimmed. “Would my father be allowed to come?”
His tone made it clear he thought Riley might refuse.
She wouldn’t.
“Yeah, of course.” Clark got to decide his relationship with Alfie. Riley would have his back.
He stroked her anklebone. “He loves buying presents, so that’ll put him in a good mood. And my mum is the best. She’s going to crochet you an awful hat or a pair of socks—she does them while they wait for deliberations in court.”
“I would be honored.” She was glad that even after the disastrous first interaction with his dad, he wanted her to meet his mom. To fold her into his life and vice versa.
Maybe if they were in their twenties, it would seem too soon to be talking about this kind of stuff, but they weren’t. They both had a strong sense of self, they knew what they wanted, what they valued.
Riley hadn’t hoped love would feel like this, hadn’t let herself. Outlining a future with someone she loved, she didn’t kid herself that it would be easy, and she knew Clark wouldn’t either—come on, he was the most fastidious, considered person she’d ever met—but even though they didn’t get into the complications of visas and time zones tonight, she knew they’d figure it out.
They were a good team.
On the way back the next morning, they picked up takeaway as a thank-you for Ceilidh, bringing it around when they returned her car. Riley felt alarmingly adolescent sitting next to Clark on the sofa telling her friend, sheepishly, about their discovery at St. Andrews and the new plan to break the curse over curries.
Clark filled in when she got tongue-tied about the personal part, put his hand on her bouncing knee, the pressure warm, reassuring.
Alarmingly, Ceilidh was so happy for them she burst into tears. Suspicions of her being a romantic: confirmed.
She dabbed at her eyes with a takeaway napkin. “So you’ll join hands in front of the castle and declare your love?”
Riley nodded. That was as far as they’d gotten on the drive back.
“Are you going to sprinkle salt again or bathe each other or . . .” She made a vulgar hand gesture.
Riley tore off a piece of naan and threw it at her.
“No. This time, I think we need to figure out a way to honor the fae.”
The way Riley saw it, the curse had lasted a long-ass time, causing tons of strife and mischief that their ancient supernatural catalyst might not be so eager to relinquish.
“Our best chance of avoiding any last-minute mystical tomfoolery is to design a ceremony with a proper amount of fanfare to send off a sacred power. Basically, I gotta learn about local fae customs—STAT.”