“Mercutio’s different.” Phoebus emerges, tucking in a green shirt that enhances the hue of his irises. “He’s not arrogant like the rest of them.”
“He does seem nice.”
Phoebus smiles. “You spoke to him for all of thirty seconds.”
“I would’ve spoken to him longer if you hadn’t sent him on his merry way.”
“My friend needed me. Friends always trump boyfriends.”
“Boyfriend, huh?”
He shrugs. “Maybe. We’ll see.”
“Youreallylike him, don’t you?”
“I really like his mouth.”
“He does have a pretty mouth.”
Phoebus grins as he roots through the heap of shoes by the front door until he finds a pair of emerald satin loafers that match his shirt.
As I join him by the front door, I sigh. “I wish we had the same shoe size.”
“That would make your feet as long as your calves. Not quite sure any man would find them attractive.”
“Your feetareclownishly large.”
He laughs. “At least Mercutio doesn’t find my feet—or any other part of my body—clownishly anything.”
I roll my eyes. “You can take the pureling out of Tarecuori, but not Tarecuori out of the pureling.”
Another chuckle falls from his mouth as we set off, arm in arm, toward the northeastern tip of Tarecuori.
* * *
In the middleof a heated debate on the trustworthiness of sprites—Phoebus believes they can be trusted; I have yet to meet one who can—I confess, “I broke things off with Antoni last night.”
Phoebus’s blond eyebrows shoot way up. “Damn. I had a bet going with Syb about which man you’d choose.”
I look away from the looming checkpoint. “You thought I’d choose Antoni?”
“I actually bet on a ménage.”
I choke on my next swallow. “You bet that I’d have a threesome with a prince and a fisherman?”
He grins. “A Fae can dream.”
“You dream of me with two men?”
“In my dream, I’m the one standing in your shoes.”
“Trust me, you would hate being in my shoes—figuratively and not.”
He glances at the leather deathtraps. “My sister has a large collection. Maybe we can find a pair that fits you.”
“I cannot steal Flavia’s shoes.”
“She wouldn’t even notice.”
