Page 16 of Tips and Trysts

I swallow before I say, “I would tell you to suck a big dick, but nobody with a big, fat dick would ever offer you the privilege of blowing it.”

Everett doesn’t react at first. In fact, he stands stock-still before the concerned look on his face fades. The corners of his mouth unfold into a gentle smirk, and he murmurs, “Are you serious?”

“I’m more serious than your powder blue button-down addiction.”

“But not as serious as your falling out with the coven, I see. Nobody would lend you their broomstick tonight? Surely you could have gotten here in five, maybe ten minutes if you hadtaken to the skies.” And he’s still smirking when he mutters, “God, you’re funny.”

My inhale is involuntary. Everett has never said anything complimentary to me before, and the effect is unprecedented. My stomach flutters, and the galaxy of goosebumps on my arms, lingering fromTheir fucking loss, takes on new life.

The insults were different—fun. But praise is…weirdlynice.

Before I can force myself to squash down all that fluttery shit rising in my stomach, he exhales and scuffs the sole of his shoe on the stone pavers. “I don’t want to go in there,” he mutters, cocking his head toward the building. “I told my father to take my campaign out of his speech like you suggested. He didn’t react well, which was predictable. He’s…difficult.”

“Actually, it’s sounds like he’s a little bitch, but we both knew that already.”

Everett lets out a puff of breath, almost like a laugh, but he doesn’t confirm or deny what I’ve said.

“Is he pissed about this protest?”

“Livid. My request didn’t help.” He clears his throat. “Hey, thank you. I hope I didn’t...”

I shrug. “My tacos are getting cold at my door, and I may have to start streaming from the backseat of the Uber, but no, you didn’t ruin my evening.”

His smirk fades, and he swallows before he says, “But I did ruin last night. You and—”

“Don’t,” I warn, taking a step back from him. “Let it go.”

His gaze is unblinking. “I don’t really let things go,” he admits.

“Well, you better start because I’m not talking about this.”

“Why not? If we could talk about it—”

“Talk about what? About how you led me on, embarrassed me, or—” I sigh, closing my eyes. I definitely need to take a beat. I pinch my index finger and thumb around the bridge of my nose and exhale.

“Do you want me, Cora?”

My eyes blink open immediately. The question is jarring in and of itself, but my name at the end digs under my skin.Cora. Somehow, with Everett calling me “princess” for the last day, I had forgotten how my name sounded on his lips. The motion of the two syllables is inexplicably disorienting.

He’s watching me carefully.

You could turn me into a fucking mess, couldn’t you?

I could. I could easily and handily ruin this guy if I felt like it—but he could ruin me too. And after the humiliation I’ve endured over the last few hours, the thought shouldn’t be exhilarating, but it is.

I live for it: the ruination that comes from giving absolutely no fucks.

“I don’t know,” I admit, and the words come out soft.

“Do you want to find out?” he asks, measured but crackly as if hot coals burn beneath his words. He takes a step closer, and I can see his eyes up-close. They’re so pretty—enough to keep me from reacting to the sound of crunching leaves and shoes treading the path behind me.

“Are you Governor Logan’s son?” someone calls out before I can respond.

I turn around, and there’s a man standing in the middle of the pathway leading into the garden. His blazer is clean, and he’s wearing a white button-down shirt—the business-casual uniform for most people in the District.

“I am,” Everett confirms, curt and bureaucratic once more, devoid of the simmering heat from moments ago.

The man takes a step closer to us and stands in the glow of the muted white lights from Healy Hall’s wall sconces. Now that I can see him clearly, I know something is…off.

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