“Sorry for the interruption,” she says, her English accent thick and melodic. “If you’d fancy a cuppa instead of bubbly, please don’t hesitate to let me know.”
And then, because the universe hates me, Eric starts mimicking her accent.
“I don’t want to be an arse,” he says, clasping his hands together in front of his chest, “but I would absolutely adore a cuppa.”
I shoot him a wide-eyed glare, silently begging him to stop before he gets us banned from polite society, but he ignores me entirely. Instead, he launches into an animated story about histotally not fakehometown in London, complete with hand gestures and questionable geography.
The gargoyle listens politely, smiling shyly.
When the human beta returns, the gargoyle excuses herself with a soft nod, wings twitching nervously. She flinches under the other woman’s sharp stare before leaving, the door closing behind her with a hushed click.
“I have one of our workers pulling samples for you to try one,” the woman says, all polished calm, and unshakable poise. “Is there anything else we can help you with in the meantime?”
“No! Thank you,” I answer immediately, cutting Eric off before his brain can latch on to another terrible idea.
She gives a polite nod and slips out of the room.
The second she’s gone, I turn on Eric with an incredulous stare. “You aren’t British,” I hiss. “You’ve never been to London. What the fuck was that?”
“I know,” he whines, slumping dramatically into his chair. “But I can’t stop now, can I?” he clutches his chest like he’s in the middle of a tragic romance. “That sweet little gargoyle is bringing me a cuppa.”
Isquintathim.“Doyouevenknowwhatacuppa is?”
Heshrugs,entirelyunbothered.“Iwashopingit wouldbecomeobviouswhensheeventuallyhandeditto me.”
I bury my face in my hands. This is my emotional support gremlin.
Three hours and two visibly pissed-off workers later, Eric and I finally escape the extremely fancy champagne-and-pretentiousness shop. I swear the air in the store was thicker with all of the judgment and hostility.
We catch a cab to a thrift store in the not-so-great part of town.
The fluorescent lights hum overhead, and the faint smell of dust, old fabric, and questionable life choices settles arounduslikeafamiliarblanket.Ifeelmyselfrelaxalmost instantly. No champagne flutes or marble floors. No sales associates watching me like I might sneeze on their silk ties.
“This,” Eric says reverently, sweeping an arm toward a rack of aggressively patterned flannel shirts, “is culture.”
I snort unflatteringly.
We dig through mismatched hangers and questionable denim, holding things up to each other with loud commentary and zero shame. Eric finds something truly heinous and insists I try it on. I retaliate by handing him a pair of pants that look like they’ve survived three divorces and a house fire. Balance is restored.
From there, we hit the all-you-can-eat buffet that Eric fell in love with. We load our plates until they’re bending under the weight of crab legs, dripping grease everywhere, and cracking shells with reckless abandon. Our fingers are slick, our facesshiny, and neither of us speaks for a solid ten minutes except to growl if the other reaches too close to our pile.
By the time we finally roll back into Eric’s room, we’re sluggish, overfed, and stupidly blissful. My stomach is full. My brain is quiet. And most importantly, I haven’t thought about my lying husband.
Not even once.
I swear.
Chapter Thirty
Aksel
“You seem to talk a lot about Hale, but I feel like we hardly knowyouat all, Aksel. Tell me a little about yourself. What’s something no one knows about Aksel Winther?”
He exhales through his nose, eyes dropping briefly to the floor as if searching for the answer there. One corner of his mouth lifts in a small, apologetic smile.
“Hmm… I’m afraid I’m not that interesting,” he says quietly. “Most of my secrets are laid out for anyone to see.”
He hesitates, the smile turning wry. “Well, I suppose all of my secrets are out now.”
