Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Del
I twist the sweating cocktail glass—full to the brim with an untouched Fruit Tingle—on the table and huff out a sigh. “Damn baby goat.”
Stevie smirks. “Yeah, it’s the baby goat’s fault.”
Her party is in full effect. The garden’s gazebo is ours for the night, slung with fairy lights and throbbing with a constant beat, care of my specifically curated playlist. Stevie’s friends—new ones from Hartley Ridge and old ones from her university and school days—are dancing and chatting.
There are costume wings aplenty, and the party looks like the most eclectic collection of fairies ever to congregate.
I should be in the middle of it all, shaking my butt and wings, my spectacular fairy makeup dazzling everyone.
When it comes to cosplay, I am a freaking superstar. It’s why I have over four million followers on Instagram. It’s also why I try to keep my real life separated from it. Some of my followers are a little…single-minded.
I uploaded a single post an hour ago—location set to private—showing off my punk-fairy outfit with its studded dog collar, black glitter-splattered gauze wings, black faux-leather corset and tutu, and was inundated with comments.
Good for the ego, but I need to be in Awesome Cousin Del mode, not Cosplay_Del mode.
I’d planned to cut loose tonight. To have fun, drink a little, dance a lot, and celebrate my cousin getting married.
Instead, I’m staring at my untouched cocktail and thinking about Lachlan freaking McKenzie.
“Definitely the baby goat that did it,” I mutter, twisting my glass. “I wouldn’t be in this situation if I hadn’t seen him holding it.”
I picture Lachlan surrounded by animals in the back of the truck, the baby goat in his arms, his feet planted, biceps bulging, thighs doing the same, his shirt stretched to maximum integrity…
“Ahhh, we’re talking about the Lachlan McKenzie situation?” Stevie asks, sitting opposite me. Her wings shimmer and little showers of purple glitter fall from them as she takes a sip of her own cocktail. “Is that why you’re sulking?”
I dip my fingertips into my cocktail and flick them at her. “Oh, shush. I know you’re living a fairy-tale happily ever after—hence the theme of tonight—but I don’t live in your world. I’m not a romantic fool.”
“Hey!” she protests on a laugh. “Watch it, or I’ll dump you as my bridesmaid.”
“No, you won’t,” I chide, grinning.
She laughs again. “True. But, Del, you are allowed to have feelings for people, you know. And Lachlan McKenzie is a very impressive-looking guy.”
“He must be at least ten years older than me,” I say. “Maybe even fifteen.”
Stevie cocks an eyebrow at me and says nothing.
I roll my eyes. “Okay. Fine. Who cares about the age difference? But as far as excuses go to not throw myself at him, it’s the only one I can latch onto.”
“At least you’re finally being honest with yourself,” she says around another sip of her cocktail. “Go for it, I say. Throw away.”
I scowl at my drink. “I have no clue where he is.”
Every movement from the corner of my eye tonight has made me look. At first, I thought I was on edge because of my privacy-invading Instagram fan, but after noticing I wasn’t scared but disappointed, I realized it was Lachlan I was looking for. Hoping to see.
To have him see me.
I look amazing, and I want him to see me like this. My double Ds are almost spilling out of the black corset of my punk fairy costume, and my torn fishnet stockings scream sex vixen ready to slay.
I want him to lust after me. To lose control of himself. To throw me against a wall, a counter, a bed, and have his wicked way with me.
It’s more than that. You want him to fall in love with you. To never want to leave your…
My breath catches in my throat, and my mouth falls open. “Good gravy,” I whisper.
Lachlan is striding toward us.
“What?” Stevie frowns, pivoting in her seat to look over her shoulder. “Oh,” she says on a chuckle. “I see.”
Gone are the faded denim jeans and snug white T-shirt.
Replacing both are a pair of charcoal chinos that should come with a strictly 18+ advisory warning and a black Henley that makes the chinos look prudish.
His hair is tousled, like hands have clawed through the dark strands over and over.
His jaw is dark with a stubble I want to feel against my inner thighs, and on his face sits a pair of gold-rimmed glasses.
Liquid hunger pools between my legs. My clit prickles with a rush of blood and lust. My nipples bead.
The man truly is sex incarnate.
God, I want him. Now. Hard. Fast. Slow. I don’t care how. I just want him.
Snagging an empty chair, he drops himself into it at our table, leans forward—elbows on knees—and pins me with those gray eyes of his from behind pristine lenses. “Hi, future wife. Can we talk?”