The florist used a midnight blue velvet ribbon with a gold clasp, giving it gothic romance vibes. I have to admit, it goes so well with her dress.
I jerk my chin at her. “Your turn, tell me about your dress.”
She lights up. “This old thing? Got it in a charity shop for a fiver.”
“Same.” I pop my hip.
She laughs. It’s warm, like melted chocolate. “It’s a one-shoulder gown with a thigh-high slit.”
I have most definitely noticed the slit. It shows off those rugby-power legs like a subtle flex to her strength and speed.
“Matte satin, cinched waist, structured shoulder, one sleeve, asymmetric neckline,” she recites. “You know, to show off my strong shoulders and arms without beingtoomuch.” She sticks out her foot, showing off a metallic blue, pointed stiletto. “Chance of falling on my hole tonight is high.” She flashes me a smile. “If I go down, you’re likely to go with me, so keep your distance.”
When she giggles, the silver dangling earrings shake and catch the light. Her hair is pulled to one side, styled in soft waves over her shoulder.
She truly is a goddess. And the last thing I want is to keep any kind of distance between us.
After a long moment of silence, I scrunch up my nose. “You could have made an effort, Rhi. People are gonna talk.”
She laughs again, as does someone upstairs, clearly, they’re listening. I offer her my elbow. “Your chariot awaits.”
She doesn’t hesitate. “Are you driving?”
“Nope. We have a driver for the night.”
She oohs as I guide her to the door. “The driver’s your loquacious best friend, isn’t it?”
I chuckle. “Guilty as charged. And that’s probably the nicest way to describe the way Sully talks utter shite.”
We take our time as we walk. For once, I know it’s categorically not because of my leg.
“I should have practiced walking in these fucking death traps more,” she mutters as we shuffle out of her parent’s house to Sully’s branded, Belfast Blizzard motor waiting at the end of the path.
“Your chariot awaits,” he announces, opening the door.
Rhiannon looks at me, then shakes her head. “He already did that.”
He shoves my shoulder. “Dude. You still look sharp as fuck.”
We make small talk as we head over the back roads to Carrickfergus Castle, where the event is taking place. Ireland’s most famous weatherman, Barra Best, tells us the weather seems to have gotten the memo, and it won’t piss down on us during our indoor-outdoor soirée.
Despite Sully driving a big car, there are only a few inches between our bodies on the twenty-five-minute drive, and every minute that passes drives me closer to not only the castle, but to abandoning the stupid fucking rules and kissing this gorgeous woman next to me.
Somehow, I keep it in check and keep my hand fromtrailing the patch of skin on her thigh visible through that slit in her dress.
Temptation, thy name is Rhiannon Morrigan.
Carrick Castle and Marina have never looked so good. There are marquees, a bazillion twinkly lights—actual number—and a queue of cars dropping off people dressed to the nines.
It’s no secret that tonight puts the two of us under public scrutiny in a way that we haven’t had so far. So, when we park, I circle the car, open the door, and offer her my hand. She looks at it, hesitating for a beat.
I lean toward her. “Rule number three, gorgeous. Sell it to the skeptics.”
If only I was still faking it.
“If I recall correctly that means hand-holding, pet names, and mandatory longing gazes tonight. I’ll try to stop just shy of looking frenetic or like a serial killer while I’m staring at you.” I wink at her, hoping she’ll laugh. Because it’s quickly becoming my favorite sound.
She does, which makes me beam.
