“Promise me you’ll behave,” she says. “Tell me you’ll stop being so hateful. But also…” She scrunches her nose. “But also promise you won’t be too not-hateful, either. Tell me you realize the whole napkin pact was a juvenile mistake, and don’t try to pursue me. Callum doesn’t deserve this.”

I shake my head. “I’m sorry.”

I don’t add that I can’t—or I won’t—agree to any of that, or that Callum simply doesn’t look like the right guy for her. She’s too imperfect for him.

But I’ll never say that to her face. And not imperfect in a bad way. He needs a Barbie he can play house with. Rory is too much to handle.

“We need to go back now.”

“Why?” she shrieks.

“Because we have two more months of babysitting Richards, and falling apart is not an option. Especially if it’s because your no-show, mediocrely talented late father popped on the radio for no good reason other than the station couldn’t figure out Christmas is over.”

She looks up at me now, the entire weight of the world’s misery swimming in her green eyes.

“Why am I here?” she asks. Quietly. Darkly. Like a dame.

There’s threat laced in her voice, and I want to suck it out of her mouth and scoop up the rest of her venom with my tongue. But kissing her will have to wait. If I do it now, I won’t stop, and I have an early morning tomorrow. I made a promise I intend to keep—Rory, Ashton, Ryner, and the rest of the world be damned.

“What kind of question is that?” I run my thumb down her cheek to the corner of her mouth.

She lets me. Though she doesn’t realize she lets me.

Goodbye, Shiny Boyfriend.

“I mean, why did you let this happen? Why did you think it was a good idea to work with each other when you spotted me in that ballroom? And why are you so angry at me? What do you want from me, Malachy?” She pounds her fists against my chest, pushing me away and kicking a puddle between us.

It’s still pouring, but neither of us cares. She’s shuddering again, and this time not from the cold. Her back curves and her mouth slacks and everything about her screams sex, sex, sex. I stand there, absorbing her little fists as she launches at me again.

“Surrender,” I whisper. “I want us to surrender to this, Rory, like you promised all those years ago.” Before life tainted what we had.

“But the contract is gone. It’s dead!” she retorts.

“Is that what you need? A piece of paper?” I ask.

“Paper is important. A marriage is a piece of paper.”

“Yeah, but people get divorced.”

She shakes her head. “The contract is gone.”