"Oh come on," Angela whines. "You never want to talk about anything anymore. You're so boring now."
"I'm not boring. I'm just?—"
"What? Too good for us?" Trisha's smile has vanished. "Because you've been acting like it lately. Always busy with work, never wanting to go out, and now you're seeing someone and won't even tell us who."
"It's new. I'm being careful."
"Careful," Trisha scoffs. "Right. Because you were so careful with Bjorn. And Njal after him."
The names land like slaps.
"That's not fair."
"Isn't it?" Angela tops off her mimosa. "Come on, Ingrid. We all know how this goes. You meet some club guy, think he's different, sleep with him too fast, and then act surprised when he moves on. It's like clockwork."
My hands tighten around the water bottle. "This is different."
"That's what you always say."
"Because this time it is."
"Why?" Trisha challenges. "What makes this one so special?"
Because he sees me.
Because he's been patient and kind and present for years.
Because he told me he loves me and I'm starting to believe him.
But I can't say any of that.
Not to them.
Not to women who've never understood that sometimes the walls I put up aren't attitude—they're survival.
"He just is," I say instead.
Angela rolls her eyes. "God, you sound pathetic. Let me guess—he’s part of your daddy’s club?"
I don't answer.
Don't need to.
My silence is confirmation enough.
"Of course he is," Trisha mutters. "Because that worked out so well the last two times."
"Gunnar's not like them."
The name slips out before I can stop it.
Both of them freeze.
"Gunnar?" Angela's eyes go wide. "As in Gunnar, Gunnar? Vail and Vanir's son? The one who swooped in and took you the other night?"
Shit.
"You're fucking Gunnar?" Trisha's voice rises. "Are you serious right now?"
