“Ha! She makes Stalin look friendly!”
His brows lifted. “Should I expect to bePurged?”
“Only if you hurt me.”
“Threat duly noted.”
I laughed. “At least my brother fell for the lies. No one complains about a stomachache in our house.”
“What made you forget?”
My nose scrunched. “I plead the Fifth.”
“Ah.” That smile of his hit me in the ovaries because I knewheknew whatIknew.
He’d distracted me.
I forgot.
The basic tenet of life in the Frasier household and I forgot because this man fried my synapses.
“What vengeance are you plotting against them?”
“Not sure yet. I’m a slow-burn plotter.”
“How slow?”
“I waited four years to get back at Raisin for fucking up my hair dye the night before prom.”
His brows lifted. “It was intentional?”
“She claimed it wasn’t.”
“You didn’t believe her.”
I hummed.
“Did you… look bad? I know how important proms are.”
“I’d have shaved her hair off if I looked bad,” I reasoned.
He stared at me over his sunglasses again. “You’re a dangerous woman,duci.”
“With a needle.”
He guffawed, and just as I grinned at seeing such a light and carefree expression on his face, wearrived.
The house deserved italics.
What a fuckingwhopper!
The gates - huge.
The driveway - enormous.
The parcel of land itself - massive.
And the mansion?
