Chapter 30
Chapter thirty
I feel like a queen right now
Logan
The bar is still buzzing, lights flashing against sequins, the girls shrieking into each other’s shoulders like the last three minutes didn’t just end in a goddamn circus.
Lulu’s laughing so hard at something Zoe says, she nearly tips sideways in the booth.
My fake bride, glowing as if nothing can touch her, as though she’s never been told she’s too much, too loud, too anything.
And it makes me so fucking happy I might’ve had a part to play in that tonight.
I should have hated this. Should’ve shut down the stupid dares. Instead, I can’t stop staring at the pink plastic ring gleaming on her finger. Until it slips loose.
“Shit.” She gasps, diving under the table. Tamara follows, both of them crawling around, sequined gremlins, giggling too hard to care as they search for it. Lulu pops back up empty-handed, dress strap falling off her shoulder, hair wild. She shrugs like it doesn’t matter, still grinning.
“Guess I lost it. Divorce after three minutes—record time, right?” Her laugh is high and tipsy, and she dismisses it like it was never real.
Nobody notices when I crouch down and spot the stupid thing wedged under the leg of the booth. Neon pink, cheap, sharp edge already digging into my palm. I slip it into my pocket before anyone else can see.
It’s nothing. A joke. A five-dollar prize from the arcade claw machine, but for some reason, it feels heavier than gold.
I sit back, my hand still in my pocket, closing around the plastic until it bites. I tell myself to let it go, that this is drunk noise and sequins and tequila shots. That I’m too smart to let it mean anything.
But it does. It fucking does. And I can’t let it go.
Not when I can still taste her lipstick, not when her sequined dress is the same one I peeled off her in a dressing room just yesterday.
Not when the second I slid that ring onto her finger—even plastic, even fake—it felt right. Natural. Like it was supposed to be there.
And I know, as sure as I know the beat of my own pulse, that I’d never want to put a ring on anyone else. Not like that. Not ever.
Fuck.
I love her.
I love her.
But I’ll be damned before I say it out loud tonight. Not here, not with her drunk and sparkling, laughing and having the best time.
So I let myself keep my eyes on her instead, because it’s too late to take it back.
The scent of lime air freshener and stale whiskey hits us once we’ve piled into a taxi with Tamara and Eli, headlights washing the city in and out of view. Eli’s folded into the front seat, head against the window, mumbling in a half-slur.
“Nachos. Tam’ra, I want nachos. Big ones! With cheese all over. And jalapenos.”
Tamara groans behind him, pinching the bridge of her nose with her free hand while the other stays clamped on his arm like a seatbelt. “Oh my god, Eli. Go to sleep.”
Which leaves me in the back corner behind the driver, and Lulu in the middle seat.
She’s tucked beside me, sequins brushing against my sleeve every time the car hits a bump. Her arm rests at her side, knuckles barely grazing mine. Accidental at first, then definitely not. A slow, deliberate drag until her pinkie hooks around mine.
It’s nothing, barely there. Hidden in the shadows of the back seat, where no one can see. But it sets every nerve in my body on fire.
I shift just enough to catch her hand properly, folding my fingers over hers. Small and careful. Secret. She exhales a little laugh, more breath than sound, and leans the tiniest bit closer.
Christ, I’m gone for this girl.
Her palm is warm and soft, her nails biting lightly as if she’s scared I’ll pull away. Like I ever could. I squeeze back, thumb dragging across her knuckles once, slow and careful. She exhales, head tipping just enough that her shoulder bumps mine.
The ride’s nothing but passing headlights painting her in gold, the weight of her hand secure in mine. Every so often, she giggles under her breath at Eli’s half-snores, and I have to bite my tongue not to laugh with her.
Or to turn, press my mouth to her temple, and soak in the warmth of her hair against my jaw. But Tamara’s sharp, even half-dozing, Eli’s still rambling about melted cheese, and the driver doesn’t need this show.
So I hold her hand tighter, thumb smoothing across her knuckles again, like it’s the only tether keeping me sane.
We roll to a stop outside their house first, and the car idles under the streetlight. Tamara nudges Eli awake and hauls him out with a saintly patience, steady and firm.
He stumbles up the path, muttering about vows and sour cream, while she glances back once, catching my eye. Suspicious. Knowing. And then she looks away, shaking her head as though she doesn’t want the details.
The car pulls away toward Birch, and suddenly, it’s just me and Lulu, still holding hands in the dark. It slows outside Lulu’s driveway, and we climb out, laughter and shouts from the bar still buzzing in my head.
For a second, we stand there in the quiet, streetlamps painting her blue sequins bright. She hugs herself against the chill, biting her lower lip.
“Night, Pookie,” she teases, voice softer than it should be. “Do I get a goodnight kiss?”
I narrow my eyes, already shaking my head. “Not happening.”
She blinks, giggles bubbling out. “Rude. If you’re not gonna kiss me good night, will you at least tuck me in? My bed’s calling.”
“No, Lu.” I step closer, smiling softly and sweeping a strand of hair behind her ear. “You’re with me tonight.”
Her eyes sparkle, hazy and confused. “We agreed—too risky, can’t stay the night in each other’s beds in case Eli shows up.”
“Eli’s not going to be awake for at least half of tomorrow. And I don’t give a fuck right now. I just want you with me.”
Her brows jump, mock-scandalized. “Bossy.”
“Smart,” I correct, already turning her toward the street. “You’re drunk, Parnell. I’m not letting you trip into your house alone.”
That earns me another laugh, soft and flustered, but she doesn’t argue. Just threads her fingers through mine and lets me steer her to my front porch.
Dusty’s nails click on the hardwood as soon as we open the door.
Lulu giggles, bending down to greet him, except her heels betray her and she twists sideways.
I catch her before she hits the floor. Steadying herself, she totters into the living room before collapsing onto the couch in a glittering heap.
“No sex,” she announces, finger wobbling and serious in a way that cuts through the haze.
“No sex,” I promise.
She sips the water I press into her hands, lip gloss smudging the rim. Then she sinks deeper into the couch, eyes already heavy.
I should send her home. Let her sleep it off in her own bed. But the thought of her walking into that empty house, still tipsy and soft and warm, feels wrong.
So instead, I kneel in front of her, carefully lifting one of her legs and locking her heel against my chest so she doesn’t wobble. The strap is tiny and delicate, and I undo it slowly, careful not to scrape her skin. Her breath hitches into something giggly and soft, and it nearly undoes me.
When the heel slips free, I keep her ankle cradled in my hand, thumb tracing the curve of bone before I even realize I’m doing it. I bring her foot closer and press my mouth to the inside of her ankle in one slow, reverent kiss. Then I repeat it with the other heel.
Her head tips back against the couch, a dreamy sound spilling from her lips. “I feel like a queen right now.”
“You are. You’re my queen.”
I look up at her as I stand, my mouth still burning from the press of her skin. Then I bend, slide an arm under her knees, another around her back, and lift. She squeaks, startled, then melts against my chest with a sleepy giggle.
“Pookie,” she sighs, her hair tickling my collarbone. “You’re strong.”
I grunt, because yeah, I am. But carrying her like this, warm and trusting, does something to me.
She’s light in my arms, but the truth of it is heavy.
Heavy in a way that roots itself in my chest, telling me I want to be her person.
The one she turns to, the one she leans on, the one who gets to carry her through every doorway for the rest of our lives.
By the time we’re up the stairs and down the hall, I push my bedroom door open with a shoulder, breath tight with all the things I can’t say. Dusty trots in ahead of us and jumps onto the foot of the bed.
“Up you go,” I murmur, setting her down. She sprawls across it like she owns the place, sequins scratching against the sheets.
“Glitter bomb,” I mutter, eyeing the dress. “You wanna sleep in this thing?”
She groans. “Feels like sandpaper.”
“Yeah. Thought so.” I rummage through my dresser, pull out a soft, worn T-shirt, and hold it out. “Here.”
She presses it to her face, eyes closing, smile tugging at her lips.
“Mm. Smells like you.” She yawns, triumphant. “You’re never getting it back.”
My chest squeezes so tight it hurts. I should laugh, tell her she’s drunk.
But I can’t get the words out. Instead, I just stand there, watching her shimmy out of the sequins and tug my shirt over her head.
It hangs to her thighs, drowning her, and I swear I’ve never seen anything that looks more right.
“Cute,” she mumbles, looking down at herself before flopping back against my pillows.
“Jesus, Lu.” I drag a hand over my face, trying to calm the pounding in my chest. “You’re a menace.”
“Your menace,” she whispers, like it’s nothing, like it’s just drunk talk.
But it’s not nothing, and I need to tell her, but her eyes are already closing.
So I flick the lamp off and climb in beside her.
She scoots back without hesitation, fitting herself against me like she’s done it for years instead of weeks.
My arm curves around her waist automatically, my face pressed into her hair.
She sighs, wiggling more until our legs tangle. “Warm,” she says softly. “You’re always so warm.”
“Go to sleep, Parnell.”