At the sound of it, he slowed even further. “Because vowing over a grave sounds more dramatic than a simple promise.” He aimed an unrepentant grin over his shoulder. “Sue me.”
The corners of her mouth were indented. “So Captain Fluffytail is still alive?”
“Since I made up Captain Fluffytail approximately five minutes ago, yes, I’d say she’s still alive.” After a moment’s contemplation, he added, “Unless a coyote got to her already. She was very fluffy and delicious. Irresistible coyote chow, really.” He shook his head sadly. “Poor Cap. We hardly knew ye.”
That inimitable snorting laugh floated through the night, and he grinned up at the stars.
“You’re the worst,” she declared between fits of giggles. “The worst.”
It shocked him into laughter too, because Jesus. The irony. The irony killed him.
“Rest assured, Wren,” he gasped. “I was just thinking the same thing about you.”
13
EARLY THAT SATURDAY MORNING, LAUREN ESCORTED ALEX to the airport security checkin, reminded him to behave himself as he rolled his eyes and complained about how her unwarranted lack of trust wounded his very soul, and—after returning his final, oddly tentative wave in her direction—watched him disappear from sight.
Driving back to her duplex was … strange.
Their weeks spent almost entirely in each other’s company had connected them somehow. Tethered them together, like it or not. And with each mile she traveled away from him, that tether strained at her chest.
When his plane lifted off an hour later, safely and on time—she checked, because otherwise she’d worry—the tug became an actual ache. Which was ridiculous, obviously.
The ridiculousness of her reaction didn’t make it any less painful.
Upon hearing of Lauren’s imminent visit, Sionna had changed shifts so they could spend most of the weekend together. As soon as Lauren pulled into their detached garage and walked up to the turreted entry, her friend burst through the duplex’s right door with a tackle-hug that almost tumbled them both onto the porch floor.
“Ren!” Sionna shouted. “My favorite hag from another old bag!”
Helplessly laughing, Lauren gave the expected response. “Sionna! My shrewish sister from another mister!”
Then they were staggering into Lauren’s half of the duplex, and Sionna plopped down on the couch and eyed her friend speculatively.
“So …” Arranging herself more comfortably, she sat cross-legged. “Tell me how the best-paid babysitting job in the world is going.”
For some reason, that set Lauren’s teeth on edge. Just a little. “Alex is an adult. I’m not babysitting him.”
Damn, it was dusty in here. Also overly warm and stale. Striding to the window, Lauren heaved until it unstuck itself and opened a few inches.
“Okaaaay.” Her pixie cut rumpled and adorable, as always, Sionna tilted her head. “Then tell me how your non-babysitting job—in which you’re paid to accompany a grown man every time he leaves his house in order to ensure he doesn’t get into trouble—is going.”
Okay, it did sound a bit like babysitting, when she put it that way. But—
“I’ve come to the conclusion that Ron overreacted.” Setting her hands on her hips, Lauren turned to face the couch. “If Alex is somehow careening out of control, I haven’t seen any sign of it. And I’ve spent … what? Five weeks with him? I probably would have noticed by now.”
Idly, Sionna hugged a throw pillow to her substantial chest. “He’s not drinking to excess?”
Lauren directed a pointed glance at the wine bottle and glasses her friend had miraculously produced since entering the apartment, even though it wasn’t yet noon.
Sionna only laughed.
Grinning, Lauren dropped down onto the couch too. “Anyway, to answer your question, he hasn’t had a single drink since we met.”
Sionna’s brow pinched. “So what the hell happened in Spain?”
“I have no idea.” She angled herself toward her friend. “But I’d bet my savings account he had good reason to take a swing, and it had nothing to do with alcohol.”
“That … is not what the tabloids reported.” In the sunlight glaring through the windows, the silver strands threading through Sionna’s deep brown hair glinted like tinsel. “But you’re not a betting person, so I believe you.”
No, Lauren wasn’t a gambler. She trusted her own judgment when it came to evaluating the mental state of others, and Alex was many things—many, many things—but not the spiraling near-addict Ron had described.