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With that, he sweeps me up into a new kiss, toward a night of more and more and more pleasure, and toward a future of peace and joy and creation.
Epilogue: Raleigh
Now that Clara and Thomas have left the reception, I guess my job as maid-of-honor is done. I wave a teasing goodbye to Logan, one of Thomas’s generals who’s been humoring me for the last fifteen minutes, and head for the door myself.
It’s time to grab a real drink and maybe- finally- get laid.
Outside the ballroom, the house is too quiet for me. I don’t slow until I reach the garage and my beautiful Bentley, and as soon as the engine’s on I turn on my best playlist and gun it down the gravel drive.
Things have been better since Clara moved in. At least, my brother isn’t such a hardass anymore. Maybe it’s because he’s got someone else to bestow all his overprotectiveness on. Or maybe the lack of other sharks in the water makes him feel like he can finally lower his guard.
The reason why doesn’t matter. What does matter is that I’m about to turn twenty-five, and for the first time in my life, I can do whatever the fuck I want.
And thank god for that, because if I were still under house arrest with love drunk newlyweds right down the hall, I’d probably throw myself out my window. Or try to start a house fire again.
I refresh my lipstick in my rearview mirror, keeping only a tangential eye on the road, and fluff my dark curls. Clara was a good bff and didn’t make me put my hair up, and she was an even better bff for letting me pick a purple dress that makes the green in my hazel eyes pop. I loved it so much I updated my dye job and got an ombre done, from black at my roots to a matching purple at the tips of my hair.
Not to toot my own horn, but I look fucking hot.
For the last six months I’ve been trying to figure out what I consider a ‘fun night out.’ At first, I tried nightclubs, thinking they’d be the perfect place to pick up a guy who’d like to spend a night or two with me. Isn’t that how it happens in all the movies? But every one I went to was so loud and dark and smelled like sweat. How’s a girl supposed to do any good flirting in an environment like that?
Tonight, I’m trying something different, a lounge in what used to be Speare territory called Olympus. On the outside, it’s a white, two story building with columns lining the front and a balcony that seems to wrap around the whole thing. The exterior seats are shrouded by cascading vines glowing purple and green under special lights. I park my Bentley and walk up, doing one last quick finger comb of my hair before stepping inside.
Well. The pictures online did not disappoint.
Every wall is lined with statues in various stages of undress, with vines tangled up amongst their feet and in their hair. The ceiling is hung with lights clustered together inside multicolored glass shades shaped like enormous white flowers. The main seating area is separated into three aisles by panes of glass carved with flora and fauna. Each table is snuggled inside its own private booth, with glass on one side and walking room on the other. Going down one aisle, I pass friends and couples who look like they’re actually able to talk.
At the far end of this first room, I find the bar. It’s a semicircular counter that’s made to look like black marble, and on the far side of it is a second room that looks like it’s for dancing and listening to live musicians.
I’m not here for music. I’m here to get my V-card punched.
And just my luck, there are several couples at the bar, but there’s also one guy sitting alone. His back is to me, but I like his posture, his black slacks and dark blue button-up, and his thick hair, which in the light looks kind of carmelly-brown.
Okay, Raleigh. He looks put-together. Well off. If he’s ugly when he turns around, you can just pretend you’re waiting for someone else.
I take a breath, push my shoulders back, and stride up to the empty stool beside the guy. I keep my eyes focused very deliberately on the wall of colorful bottles behind the bar, at the beautiful flower lights above me, at anything at all but the guy sitting beside me. When the bartender arrives, I give him my absolute best smile, the one that brings out the dimple in my right cheek.
“A White Russian please,” I say, with bravado I definitely have not practiced to myself in my own mirror. I make sure to pitch my voice a little louder than normal, getting the attention of the guy next to me. “And can I get a dessert menu?”
The bartender returns my smile with gusto and gets on with my order after handing me a menu, which I browse but don’t actually see. I feel the subtle glance Guy-Next-To-Me sends my way, but I don’t return it. Instead I coil my hair around my finger, bite my lip, and go on browsing my menu.
“Have I met you before?”
Wow, that was quick. And he’s using a pretty cliche line too. I consider ignoring him, forcing him to repeat it or lean in closer, but I’m too impatient. I look up with guileless eyes-
And freeze in my seat.
Yes, Guy-Next-To-Me definitely has met me before. Well, ‘met me’ are strong words. The one and only time this man was in my presence, he was on the other side of the front gates of Warwick estate.
And his face was a pulpy mess, by virtue of my big brother’s fists.
Six months after his run-in with Warwick hospitality, Sheriff Derrick Lindman looks good as new, skin unbruised and freshly tanned by the summer sun. Even his nose appears unbroken. Dare I say it’s even more perfect than before? His blue eyes are piercing and unswollen, his lower lip unbroken and stretched into his usual stunning smile. The only flaw in his gorgeous face is the slight furrow of confusion between his brows as he looks at me.
Trying to remember who I am.
Oh fuck. Oh shit. Oh fuck shit hell damn.
No, he can’t remember me, I tell myself. He wasn’t at the Warwick estate to talk to me. He was there to grovel and spin bullshit for Tommy. Would he even notice me standing in my brother’s shadow?
