And just for a minute, as I savored the heat of her palm resting over my hand, Gareth Blackmoore was the last thing on my mind.

4

Fried Cake and Revelations

The next morning, I woke up to my alarm with Jasper snuggled against my back like a snoring thermal blanket, and the kind of hangover that made you wish you’d died in your sleep.

I only half remembered Talia giving me a ride home, followed by a drunken stumble to the carriage house through the garden, and a vague interlude of lying down among the primroses and trying to coax them into talking to me. I was probably only alive at all because, as per my last reliable memory, Morty had served us tater tots and the new-and-improved enchiladas long after the kitchen had officially closed. Along with being largely responsible for my continued existence, the enchiladas had been delicious as promised.

I was much less pleased by what I remembered of my conversation with Talia.

In the sober light of day, cascading cruelly onto my head through the skylight directly above, I wondered what on earth had possessed me to engage in so much soul baring with her. Granted, there had been a lot of excellent booze—besides the Flirty Mermaid, which was truly beyond redemption—but still, it wasn’t like me. Pride had always been one of my choice vices. And sober me would have liked at least the option of Talia Avramov, Sexy Tundra Wolf, not knowing exactly how decimated I had been by Gareth Fucking Blackmoore.

But talking to her had been . . . oddly fun. And had I imagined the flicker of something even more than fun, something alive and charged leaping between us as Talia’s face swam close to mine, liquor-stung lips parted and pale eyes intent?

Sadly, a glance at my phone screen confirmed I didn’t have time for further reflection on Talia’s mouth or intentions. After a hot shower that only fractionally restored my will to live, I threw on my most hangover-friendly clothes, left the door cracked open for whenever Jas deigned to rouse himself, then drove over to Angelina’s to meet Linden for brunch.

Inside, the diner appeared frozen in time, as if the black-and-white checkered floor and bottle-green booths had been preserved in amber, or some kind of extemporal spell. Velvety blues still strummed from the speakers, and the aroma of fried batter, powdered sugar, and bacon enveloped me like an olfactory hug. The diner was Monday-morning empty, and I quickly spotted Linden in a booth toward the back, waving me over. She stood to fold me into a tight, sweet pea–scented hug as we exchanged hellos.

“Okay, it’s clearly been way too long since I had a proper Linden Thorn hug,” I said into her hair, squeezing back hard. “I’d forgotten just how quality they were.”

“And whose fault is that?” she teased, as we pulled apart to slide into the booth. “I’ve only been trying to lure you back for years.”