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But at least I’ll die happy.
“What?” she says, and I remember myself.
Lifting my phone, I say, “One of the playlists you sent me to get hooked up to the audio…”
“What about it?” She wanders to the dresser and gets a hair clip that’s laying beside the engagement ring I gave her after our first date. I’m surprised she didn’t toss the ring in a drawer somewhere out of spite. As it stands, her pillow and blanket are still laid out on the couch in the center of the room.
I clear my throat and try not to stare at the ring. “It’s called Probs Need Therapy?”
“Every song on it is a total bop. Can confirm.”
Every song on it is a depressing nightmare.
“I’m…sure.” I checked the lyrics of some. I can’t say anything about the tunes right now, but the cry for the tomb was disturbingly apparent. “Are you sure you want me to shuffle these into the music for tonight? Your parents will be here soon.”
“Finn.” Her head lops to the side, and her straight, short hair caresses her neck in such a way I’m left breathless. “They raised me, honey. I think they can handle it.”
“Honey?” I echo.
“That wasn’t an endearment. That was the southern bless your heart intonation. It’s the oh, you poor dear, your parents simply never bequeathed any brain cells to you in the will, did they?”
I watch her. Longer than I should. The bold makeup is throwing me almost as much as how thick she just laid on her southern accent. Seeing her in this dress outside of the store has me ready to drop to my knees. She’s beautiful. Stunning. Gorgeous.
It’s shocking that I wasn’t in love with her at first sight during her interview for the position of my assistant. I guess her plastic airs and strictly professional attitude, on top of her presentation concerning how intricately she would manage my schedule, was too distracting.
“Are you good?” she asks. “Everyone will be here soon. Teresa will be buzzing guests in for us, but I think we’re supposed to greet them.” She lets a pretty little smile soften her features. “How’s this look for gentlewomanly host?”
“Lovely.”
“You’d never suspect I’m thinking about sacrificing any of the people I don’t know personally, right?” Her lashes flutter. Angelic.
I offer her my arm. “My dear, you can afford all kinds of therapy now. Your incredible insurance doesn’t even need to cover it. Just use your shiny new card.”
“Finn?” she murmurs, surprisingly tucking her hand at the crook of my elbow. Sweetly gazing up at me, she says, “I’m so glad we stacked the pallets up to six-five.” Stretching, she taps the top of my hair. “A little extra room for the quiff.”
Laughing as I pocket my phone, I shake my head—and, apparently, my quiff. “I’d hardly notice if you burned me alive. It feels like I’m on fire every time I’m with you.”
“All the pain without the charred reward. No brittle bones for my soup.” She pokes me in the arm, loses her good host expression, and scrunches her nose. “I bet you’d be too sinewy. Chewy. Will need to slow cook. Mm, yes. No charring for you. ’Twould be a waste.”
Should I be concerned?
Nah.
This is fine.
Probably.
Once Marcella’s done pretending she’s going to boil me alive until the muscle falls off my bones, we head outside where she splits off to help Penny sample the display of chocolate fountain treats while I get the music started.
To Marcella’s credit, she was absolutely correct. The lyrics leave me worried, but her songs are definitely “bops.”
As I’m debating grabbing a chair by the smaller marshmallow-roasting fire to wait out the influx of guests, the first vehicle pulls up. A tall man wearing glasses steps from the driver’s side while a woman smaller than Marcella with long straight hair exits from the passenger’s. The woman pins me immediately and marches while the man trails along behind her, both hands in his pockets.
“Marshi.”
I recognize the voice instantly. “Brigid. Nice to formally meet you.”
“You’re taller than I thought you’d be.”
