“I think you should go.” The genius advances toward me, but I can tell he’s the type to file a lawsuit before he throws a punch.

“Aurora.” I ignore him, staring at her with icy boredom.

She puts her black dress on quickly, mumbling something under a breath, doubtful words of praise as to my hospitality thus far.

“I am ready.”

“Ready for what? The hard facts of life? Here’s one: you’re an asshole, Mal. Here’s another: there’s not one part of you I still even remotely like.”

My chest constricts, but it’s probably because I haven’t had a drink since New York. And before New York, in months. Years. I’ve cut back on the alcohol significantly since The Night That Ruined Everything. I didn’t want to become Aurora’s father, Glen.

“To work.” I pick up her shoe and toss it into her hands. She catches it, her brows diving in confusion.

“Mal, it’s midnight.”

“She reads the clock; you read social situations.” I give Shiny Boyfriend an enthusiastic thumbs-up. “Together, you’re a rare force of intelligence and capability.”

“I’m serious.” She scowls.

“Inspiration hits me at weird hours.” I shrug.

“Can it hit you in the face into another fit of sleep? At least until tomorrow morning?” she inquires, her cheeks pink.

She’s putting her shoes on, though, like I knew she would. That’s the thing about true artists, they cannot deny their art, even—and especially—when they’re hurting.

Shiny Boyfriend glances between us, obviously unfamiliar with the full rainbow of human emotions. It looks like this is the first time he’s witnessing a fight. He is a bit taller than me and definitely has that Brad Pitt circa 1990, this-is-your-life-and-it’s-ending-one-minute-at-a-time look down to a T. Unlike Tyler Durden, though, I can search with a magnifying glass and still won’t be able to find one alpha bone in his body. There are likely more pheromones in a tutu.

Underwhelmed by my competition, I turn to Aurora and snap my fingers.

“In this lifetime, please. And bring a jacket. I write outside, and you’re notoriously more frigid than the iceberg that killed the Titanic.”

Aurora stomps toward the door.

“Don’t blame the iceberg. Blame the Irish people who built the ship…” she murmurs.

“It was fecking working when it left here for Southampton. We will not be blamed for shoddy workmanship.”

I bite down on a smile. Secretly, I can admit to myself that Aurora is not a total bore.

“Besides, what are you, exactly? Last time I checked, your father wasn’t a Viking.”

She opens her mouth, no doubt getting ready to verbally knee my balls, when the muppet interrupts us.

“Love?” Shiny Boyfriend calls behind her.

I positively loathe that nickname. Love. Something about uttering this word so offhandedly makes me want to jam his head into a bucket full of bleach.

Aurora turns around.