I heard Tor close the door about half a second before I also wrapped my arms around her, burst into tears but mine were relieved as well as joyous.
We rocked back and forth crying for awhile then she reared back, grabbed my forearms, shook them, her eyes darting to Tor and back to me before she shouted, “Look at him! He’s tall, hot, those scars are way hot, I’ve never seen any man wear pajama bottoms that well and he has just the right amount of chest hair! Girl, you did all right.”
See! There was a reason Phoebe and I were BFFs.
“Girl, I know!” I shouted back.
“Sweets,” Tor murmured from behind me and I felt his hand warm on the small of my back before I twisted my neck to look up at him, “you may wish to calm down and rejoice far more quietly.”
“Sweets,” Phoebe whispered reverently, “hot.”
I smiled at Phoebe’s words but my eyes didn’t leave Tor’s face and I saw his eyes smile back before I said to him, “Right. That would probably be prudent.”
“Right,” he replied, leaned in and touched his mouth to mine.
“Hot,” Phoebe breathed and, incidentally, didn’t let go of my arms.
Tor pulled back, his eyes slid to Phoebe and back to me before he muttered, “I shall get dressed.”
Phoebe finally stepped away from me and as she did so, she stated, “Please, if you’re doing that on my account, I’m totally cool with you exactly the way you are.”
Tor looked at her then he looked at me then his mouth twitched, he shook his head, made no response and strode to my bedroom.
Phoebe and I watched.
Then I heard Phoebe repeat a breathless, “Hot.”
I looked at her to see she was looking at me.
Then, as often happened, sometimes for no reason whatsoever, we both dissolved into giggles.
And our giggles went uncontrolled when we both heard muttered from my bedroom, “Bloody hell.”
In fact, at that, we collapsed into each other’s arms and roared with them.
So much for being quiet.
* * *
I made my prince and my best friend blueberry pancakes and bacon and we went overkill by following this with red velvet cake.
But, whatever, it was time to celebrate. I was in love with a hot guy prince and future king, pregnant with his child and I still had my best friend. If that didn’t say celebration, nothing did.
And furthermore, if there was a time I could overeat, now was it.
While Tor showered, I filled Phoebe in on more detail about Tor and she breathed the word “hot” or drawled the word “nice” about seven thousand times while I was doing it.
Then, while I cooked and we ate (standing up in the kitchen with our plates close to our mouths, something else that made Tor’s lips twitch), I filled Phoebe in with more detail on everything else.
Then we retired to the living room.
Tor was dressed in jeans and a cool, light blue shirt he didn’t tuck in, I was wearing my nightie with my short robe tied over it and we were sipping after breakfast, after cake coffee.
Phoebe was curled in my armchair. And I was tucked tight to Tor’s side on the couch, the soles of my feet to the cushion, my legs having fallen into his thigh; his arm was curled around me holding me close when it occurred to me.
And what occurred to me was that my best friend was definitely crazy, a certifiable nut, but, even so, she’d bought our equally definitely crazy story really easily.
And that was weird.