Page 56 of The Heir's Bargain

"Who was your first kiss?" Moris this time.

"Rosalina."

Again.

Easy questions. Questions that only made me sink further back against the bench as they dredged up memories of Fynn that I had tried to forget years ago.

When he was fresh-faced and wide-eyed.

When my heart fluttered every time he turned my way.

Those years had once felt miles away, but now, they seemed as close as ever. It made me realize how foolish I had been back then.

If thirteen-year-old me had known then that we would only be courting Fynn because of a deal, she would have been embarrassed and outraged. But most of all, she would have been heartbroken.

Childhood crushes, however, weren't meant to last.

Clearly.

"All right, my turn!" Moris shouted several rounds later. Swaying slightly in his seat, he reached forward and flipped over the next card. "Ha! An odd!" He pointed at Fynn, his finger waving in the air. Moris seemed to have forgotten that you only drank when you didn't answer the question, not every time a question was asked or a dare was posed. "Prince Fynneares," he slurred.

"Lieutenant Monistare," Fynn said, leaning forward.

Moris chuckled, his head falling onto the table as he pounded his fist against the wood.

Fynn raised a brow in question, glancing at Sylvia and me.

"Moris," I said, nudging him with my foot beneath the table. "You know you're supposed to ask him to do something, right?"

"I know, I know." He snorted, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as he lifted his head from the table. "Go ask Bernadette about Roth's cocktails. "

"Isn't that—" Fynn began.

"Hilarious?" Moris supplied, interrupting Fynn.

Brows raised, Fynn said, "Not exactly what I was going to say, but?—"

"You can always drink instead," Sylvia suggested.

Fynn dropped his gaze to the dismal ale before him.

Amusement rose in my throat as I watched him debate whether to go through with the dare or drink.

The moment he decided, his shoulders sagged. He brushed a hand through his hair and scanned the crowd. "Which one is Bernadette?"

"There we go!" Moris shouted, slapping a hand against the table.

I leaned closer to Fynn, reaching over him and pointing across the room toward the musicians. "Over there. She's the one in the yellow dress."

His eyes landed on the older woman dancing with her hands in the air as the musicians played a light jig on the small platform.

Shaking his head, he stood and weaved his way through the crowd. Once behind the woman, Fynn tapped her shoulder to get her attention. Bernadette spun around, almost slapping him in the face with her wild movements. Bernadette's dancing had always been borderline chaotic. One never knew when to expect an elbow in the air.

When recognition of whom she almost hit settled in, she slapped her hands over her mouth, muttering an apology. She immediately tried to curtsy, and I chuckled as her outburst began to catch the attention of the nearby patrons.

Fynn shifted on his feet and tugged at the ends of his hair at the base of his neck.

Soon, Bernadette folded over in laughter, and Fynn stared down at her. Unsure what to do, he looked back at us.

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