“That’s theMagical Trioof Elm Hollow,” Sloane whispers in my ear.
Her warm breath hits my neck, and I have to grip the napkin under the table to keep from reacting. Christ, I’m hypersensitive.
“The one in the center is Mrs. Lacey,” she continues, perfectly composed—like a tour guide and not the woman who just drained the life out of me in the best way possible. “Total diva. She runs the town’s theater workshop. Their theme is ‘Smut & Mystery Cozy.’”
“Smut and mystery?” I repeat, distracted by the way her dress pulls tight across her chest when she leans closer.
“Yes. Though honestly, she does everything. Oh, you saw her at the Christmas show—she directedThe Nutcracker.”
Sloane points at Aunt Tina, who is currently belting a line fromLady Marmaladewith terrifying conviction.
“You already know Tina. She’s… eccentric. She hosts everything. But her real passion is horror. She organizes splatter-film marathons in the parish hall.”
“In the parish hall?”
“Long story. The point is, she loves fake blood but is a raging hypochondriac. At the Fall Bucket List Competition, she bit her lip while wearing fake vampire teeth—and fainted at the sight of her own blood.”
I laugh. I can’t stop it.
“And the other one?” I ask, watching the graceful woman drop into a perfect split like she’s made of elastic.
“Indya. She’s the voice of reason. She joined the theater class to overcome her shyness, and Mrs. Lacey adopted her on the spot. Now she can’t escape. They’re inseparable.”
Sloane keeps talking—breaking down the social hierarchy of the local theater, the cast rivalries, the gossip wars, the decades-old drama among Elm Hollow’s wannabe stage legends.
Her voice is steady, warm, teasing.
But the truth?
I’m not really listening.
I’m sitting here in a tux—or something close, minus the tie—surrounded by clapping townsfolk, but my brain is still locked inside our chalet.
I keep seeing her head between my thighs.
Feeling the pull of her mouth.
Reliving the way she looked up at me, eyes promising both ruin and salvation.
No one’s ever wrecked me like that.
I’ve had women. Plenty.
But no one’s ever made me feel so… claimed. Like my pleasure was something she owned. Like it was a trophy she’d decided to take home.
I slide my hand beneath the table and rest it on her knee.
She doesn’t stop talking—but her hand immediately comes down to cover mine, fingers threading through.
It’s not for the audience. The table hides us.
It’s for us.
I look around, trying to ground myself, because if I don’t, I’m about to start orbiting the sun just because she’s holding my hand like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
When exactly did I become this pathetic?
I exhale and try—really try—to take in the scene.
