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“What?” he shouts. He’s too damn loud. I shove my hands over my ears and glare at him.

“What?” Theo answers.

“A boyfriend? You never told me about a boyfriend, Theo,” Robbie complains.

Who has a boyfriend?

“It was nothing.”

Theo’s voice grates on me, making my jaw tick from clenching it so hard.

I huff, going back to my story to calm down. The room slowly fades again, and time slips by more easily. The serial killer is forcing the mechanic to fix his car so he can escape with the dead body in the boot. Then he pins the man against the bonnet, pressing his erect⁠—

Robbie nudges me with his knee. “What are you reading?” he asks.

Heat creeps up my neck. I know he has no idea what’s on my phone, but the thought of him finding out is mortifying. I turn my screen off, ignoring his question.

When I look around the table, I realise I’ve dissociated too hard. Isla and Richard are basically nose to nose, in their own world, and my best friend and Theo are nowhere to be seen.

“Where’s Bailey and Theo?” I ask.

“Bathroom, I think.”

“What? Why would you leave them alone?” I crane my neck, looking past Robbie towards the bathroom.

“They’ve probably just gone for a little chat, I’m sure they’re fine,” he shrugs.

“Throwing punches wasn’t enough to tell you they’re probably not capable of a ‘little chat’?”

“Theo apologised and said it wouldn’t happen again.” Robbie shrugs, picking up his beer and taking a sip, calm as anything.

“And you believe him?”

“I’ve known him since he was three, of course I believe him.” He nods in Isla’s direction. “Besides, she’ll make his life hell if he does anything to ruin her wedding.”

I peek again at the bathroom door.

“So?” Robbie asks.

“So what?”

“What were you reading?”

Is he serious?

I snatch up my Coke, taking a sip through the straw, and his gaze settles on my mouth. “Your small talk is shit.”

His eyes flash up to meet mine, mouth curving up at the corners. He leans into my space, and I can’t breathe. “I can sweet-talk you instead if you’d prefer.”

The deep timbre of his Scottish burr makes my stomach clench. I want to move away from him, but stubbornness keeps me in place. “You’re not my type.”

“Sweetheart, I’m everyone’s type.”

I take in his lightly tanned complexion, the thick black beard that frames his jaw perfectly, eyes the type of blue you’d only find in the deepest ocean. His hair is pulled back into a bun, with the now-familiar French braids running up the side. He’s a strange mix of rugged and beautiful, and I begrudgingly admit that when it comes to looks, fine, yes, he is my type. But I don’t understand why he’s flirting. The last time I saw him, he was furious with me.

“Well, you’re not mine,” I lie.

“Nor mine,” Isla pipes up.