Mallory Court resembles her son on the surface, she is a startling replica of Vylet Hester on the inside.
Vy.
A twinge of melancholy hits. Yes, my best friend and Mallory would be quite a pair. While night and day on the outside, both women are full of dry wit and raunchy imagination, balanced by huge hearts capable of delivering just the right encouragement at just the right time. That has made me love Mallory—and miss Vy—in increasing chunks each day.
“It would appear so.” I scoot onto one of the dark wooden stools on my side of the counter. Follow that by tugging a knee beneath my chin: a simple feat since changing out of my “date dress” and into comfier attire of a T-shirts and cotton shorts, per Cassian’s instructions as soon as we got back. It appears he is still off doing the same, though I would not put it past the man to sneak in a call to the office, his assistant, or both.
Ugh.
I tack on a heavy sigh. As if that will change anything.
And once again, doubt the decision to become the man’s “girl next door,” Temptation Manor style.
The guest bedroom certainly does not lack for comfort—with the exception of moments like these, when Mr. Court and his capital A personality determine it is acceptable to override medical orders and—
The same medical directives you let him violate an hour ago, between your thighs?
Maybe it is best that the sleeping arrangements remain as-is.
I originally conceived the move for emotional separation, following the whole Lily bombshell—but three gunshots and a week in New York Presbyterian later, my decision returned in the name of practicality. And desperation. That much was obvious just hours after Cassian’s release. Despite doctor’s orders, healing sutures, and enough pain medication to topple a horse, the man was clear he didn’t believe “bed” and “rest” belonged between the sheets with us. Shamefully, I was beyond tempted to agree. Just days apart from him, and every cell of my skin reignited like dry brush…
Just like now.
Just as it did an hour ago, back at the Cloisters. By the Creator. Such soaring, tingling, amazing moments…now, just the memories refilling me with such abject need…
Before the memories become haunted.
Just like our passion was.
An invasion we both allowed—perhaps inevitable now, in light of how we successfully kept Lily beneath the rug for six weeks. Why it comes as a shock that we did not expect her wraith to rear up tonight, when the two of us dropped clothes, defenses, and all self-control, should be a stunner all on its own. But I do not feel that either. I am only mad at her—and madder at myself, for letting her ruin one of the most perfect hours of connection Cassian and I have ever shared…
And wonder when we will be able to recreate again.
I miss him so.
My longing steals over my face before I can help it—or prevent Mallory from seeing it too.
“Uh-oh.” She pushes up. Leaves behind the cat-with-the-canary grin. “So in this case…‘back early’ doesn’t mean ‘early for other things’?”
“Errrmm…” I hurl my gaze at a bowl of fresh fruit across the counter, though my cheeks must be the shade of the shiny apples perched on top.
“Oh, goodness. I’ve embarrassed you.”
“Of—of course not!”
“Please, Mishella. Don’t take away my special moment.”
I jerk my head back up. Have forgotten what fruit to compare myself to now, especially as Mallory leans back over, grabbing one of my hands. “Your—”
“Moment.” Her grasp tightens a little. “Yep. Just let me savor it a second longer.”
“Uhhh.” I eek out a smile. “All right. Savor away?”
To my deeper confusion—but infinite relief—a laugh bubbles on her lips. The kind only a maimanne can get away with, filled with teasing but loving warmth. The sound is so odd, it takes a moment to recognize it—then understand it.
Then swallow back the heat behind my eyes because of it.
Mallory angles her chin up. Gives me the benefit of an assessing breath. “In case you can’t tell, cutie, I’m not exactly a prude. One can’t be when bringing up a boy who knew all the parts of his jolly roger, by their English and Latin names, before he finished third grade.”
A giggle eclipses the tears. “And how long did you get away with calling it his ‘jolly roger’?”
“Longer than I likely should have.” She swipes a cluster of grapes out of the bowl. Pops one in and cants a smirk. “Still doesn’t mean I don’t want to think of him choosing a