Unwillfully Wed to My Valentine (Fire at Will #1)

Chapter Twelve

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The brightest sis around.

Amber

Limoncella, my sister. It is very clear that my mother’s love of yellow infiltrated her decisions where baby names were concerned.

It is also clear my sister and I rolled far, far, far from that sunshiny tree.

Or, well, at least it is starkly obvious when you look at my sister, who got our father’s height, and his straight hair, and opts to dye it a jet black that matches her lipstick every few weeks. I don’t perfectly recall when she decided her style was Morticia Addams , but I do know she’s never changed her mind since.

Where I fancy myself attracted to the pretty darks, Limoncella embraces the simple goth. Which comes with black nails. That are currently digging into my shoulder.

“Why have you brought a vegan here?” she hisses, tucking me into the corner of her kitchen while Liam meanders in her living room, probably desperately looking for something cute amid the draculan decor. He won’t find what his heart desires. He might find, on fourteen separate occasions, the skeleton of a bat imprisoned in resin. “I have ribs, slow cooking, in my crockpot .”

“Liam’s not that kind of vegan,” I offer, with utmost reassurance. Also known as utter deadpan.

“What kind of vegan can sit through the grotesque display that is a woman covered in barbeque sauce, decimating part of an animal with her bare hands?” Limoncella’s nostrils flare. “I hear they take away your vegan card for tolerating such a thing. I’m going to be the reason your husband loses his vegan powers.”

“ Scott Pilgrim vs. the World is not an accurate depiction of vegans.”

Removing her nails from my shoulder tendons, my sister straightens to her glorious height—as worsened normally with platform shoes or heels—and huffs. “Well, I would hope most know chicken isn’t vegan.”

“You’d be surprised,” Liam calls, poking his head into the kitchen. “Bambi…I need you.”

Clearing my throat, I excuse myself from my sister in order to go to…the guy I’m technically married to. Looking up at him, I mourn the fact I am indiscriminately surrounded by giants. “Yes?”

His hands frame my cheeks, squishing.

“Cuteness withdrawals?” I mumble.

“The cutest things here are the tiny skeletons.” A line forms between his brows. “Why are there so many tiny skeletons?”

“My beloved sister is a connoisseur of tiny skeletons.”

Voice very, very low, he whispers, “Has your sister tried therapy?”

I glance back at my sister, who looms on the other side of the narrow, tube-like kitchen, arms crossed, dark nails tapping against her plain black long-sleeve crop top. Her straight black hair practically floats around her, as though she’s inherently a supernatural creature. I whisper back, “Cutie…does any of that really scream has healed from trauma ?”

His gaze flicks up, drops back to me. “No.”

Limoncella’s black lips twist. “I can hear you.”

“I would hope so,” I offer. “It’s a small kitchen.”

It’s, truthfully, a tiny apartment above the thriving bookstore that my beautiful, amazing, wonderful sister runs. I’d worry about her going deaf if she couldn’t hear us whispering anywhere in the place.

Eyes rolling, Limoncella opens her freezer and pulls out a bag of stir-fry vegetables. “Do you have any other dietary restrictions, Mr. Warrick?”

“Liam’s fine, and no.”

“He can’t stand water chestnuts,” I say. “He will throw a fit if you make that.”

Liam turns to steel. “I would not.”

“You would so. You once ranted for an hour about them.”

“They’re— squeaky . Why would anyone want their food to possess the same qualities as a balloon?”

“Some people are filled with a whimsy you wouldn’t know anything about.” I smile.

Liam pinches my cheeks. “Limoncella—”

“Call me Limon , or I will die.”

“It’s true,” I say. “She will.”

Liam clears his throat. “Limon. I apologize for intruding on you like this. Allow me to compensate you for the trouble.”

“Amber.”

“Yes’m?”

“Control your husband.” Limoncella continues rifling through her freezer while I tug Liam away and quarantine him on a merlot clawfoot loveseat in the cozy, if small, living room.

I pat his head before attempting to return to the kitchen and help Limoncella.

Liam catches my hand before I get a chance. Stiff, he implores me with his eyes alone.

Then, he pulls me onto his lap, wraps his arms around me, and cages me to his chest.

My heart lurches. “Liam, what are you—”

“Just one minute,” he says, burying his face against my shoulder, breathing me in. “I just need one minute.”

One minute, curled up in his arms, on my sister’s couch.

I hope whatever Limoncella’s cussing at in the freezer takes up one hundred percent of her attention for an entire sixty seconds. Relaxing in the comfort that she knows enough swears to fill multiple minutes, I let my head tip against Liam’s shoulder and murmur, “You okay?”

“Lots of new. No cute.”

Lifting my hand, I push a few dark strands of his hair away from his face. “Poor Liam.”

“Was it really okay that we dropped by unannounced?” he asks, softly, fiddling with the hem of my t-shirt, running his fingers up and down the seam, folding it over on top of itself like a paper fan.

I stop him from messing with my shirt before he scandalizes me. I don’t tell him he’s not a burden on my sister. I don’t explain that Limoncella doesn’t care that she has to make another meal. I just touch a kiss to his forehead and slip away, saying, “I don’t actually like ribs.”