Page 34 of Keep Me In Your Heart

Sylvie lets out a huff when she sees me preparing myself a cup. With an obstinate expression, she walks over and plops down on the chair opposite me. I pour her cup and sit back in my seat, crossing my ankle over my knee.

“Look at us being civilized,” I joke as I hold the cup up to my lips.

“Your sister is right. We have a lot on the line, and we need to figure this out,” she replies grumpily.

“All right, darling. What do you suggest we do?” I ask before taking a sip.

Sylvie glares at me over her cup. I love to see the fiery hatred blazing in her eyes. It makes me so grateful I chose a little firecracker like her. This whole thing would have been so boring with some acquiescent young woman.

“Surely we can just fake it in public, right?” she asks.

“Of course,” I reply with a smirk.

“What are we going to say if they ask how we met?” Sylvie kicks her boots up and lays them on the coffee table. The sight of it would make my sister faint, but I find it fascinating. Much like the time she paraded through my home as if she owned it, Sylvie has this infuriating sense of entitlement. As if rules don’t apply to her. As if everything around her is absurd, and she stares right into the face of the absurdity.

It makes me hate her even more.

With a smile, I shrug. “What’s wrong with the real story?”

Her eyebrows bolt upward. “You want to tell your friends we met when I broke into your house?”

“Sure. Why not?”

“Because it makes me look like a criminal,” she argues.

My eyes narrow. “But you are a criminal.” I set my teacup down. “Besides, it’s exactly what my friends would expect from me.”

The moment the words leave my lips I regret them. And judging by the creeping smile on Sylvie’s face, she’s about to tease me about it.

“Did you just admit that I’m your type?”

“No,” I reply with a growl.

“Careful, darling. You wouldn’t want your wife to suspect you of catching feelings.”

“Shut up.” With a grimace, I avoid her gaze.

Sylvie giggles playfully, and the sound is annoyingly sweet. “We’ll tell them it was love at first sight. You were head over heels the moment you saw me traipsing through your house. Most men would have tried to kill me, but not you… You were inlove.”

“That’s enough, cow,” I bellow.

Sylvie bites her bottom lip as she smiles at me from the opposite chair. “You know, you can’t call me a cow at the party. Or bitch or cunt.”

“And you can’t call me a pig or a brute or an arsehole.”

“Deal,” she replies. “I’ll just call you darling.”

I screw up my face in disgust. “No.”

Her lips twist, and she closes one eye in a look of contemplation. “What about…honey or baby?”

I make another expression of revulsion.

“Fine,” she laughs. “What is Gaelic formy love?”

“Mo ghràidh,” I reply in a deep rasp.

Her face falls as she stares at me. I watch as her lips part, and her eyes settle on my mouth. She attempts to repeat the phrase, stumbling over the second part with her American accent so it comes out asmo ger-eye.

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