Page 81 of Wicked Sins

“To funerals,” I murmur, clinking my glass against his.

Chapter Thirty-Three

Josiah

Candy’s glass is empty long before mine.

“Another?”

At my voice, she starts a little and comes back to the present with a soft sigh. Silently, she slides over her glass.

I top her up.

She’s perched on the barstool next to mine, staring out the pool house doors like she has been for the past ten minutes. She takes a sip, and then glances at me with the glass still by her lips. “What?”

“Didn’t think you’d still be here.”

“What, in the pool house, or in this dimension?” She gestures in a wide circle.

I know I fucked up today. I lost control, and that’s something that hasn’t happened in a long time. Surprisingly, Candy wasn’t involved this time.

I shrug.

“Well, I’d rather be in here than out there,” she says, pointing at the mansion looming behind the pool. “I’m like a roach—it’ll take more than dunking me in a little water to kill me.” She winces. “Shit, I didn’t mean—”

I drop my gaze, no longer able to stare into those frank blue eyes. “I meant here, with us,” I say.

Us. I almost snort, but hold it back and instead take another sip from my glass.

“Didn’t really get a choice in the matter.” She ducks her head, drawing my gaze. “Hey, I thought we were drinking together.”

“We are,” I say, half cheering her as I lift my glass a little before coating my tongue with whiskey.

“It’s evaporating faster than you can drink it,” she says, her eyebrows lifting. I give her a grudging smile. Maybe it’s the few fingers of Irish cream affecting her, but she seems easier to talk to. “Tell you what,” she says, taking a gulp from her glass before setting it down on the bar.

She reaches out and wraps her fingers around my glass. I release it reluctantly, frowning at her when she sets it beside hers. “Right.” She shifts in her seat, turning fully toward me, with her back on the slowly darkening afternoon. “Let’s play a game.”

I snort at her, shaking my head, but she holds up a finger. I expect it to touch my lips, and that sensation is so intense that the ghost of her touch flutters on my mouth. I lick my lips, willing away the strange sensation, and she gives me a wary look.

“Truth or dare.”

I roll my eyes. “Not in a million—”

“Three rounds.” She holds up her hand, fingers spread.

“Not interested,” I say, reaching for my glass. She puts her hand over mine, pressing it to the wooden counter. When I look at her, she tilts her head a little.

“Chicken?”

“Games are for kids,” I say.

She shrugs. “Then, let’s pretend to be kids for a while.”

Her words hang heavy in the air, and for the first time—perhapsever—I drink in the sight of her.

She’s right, of course. We’re not kids anymore. Perhaps it’s been years since we could accurately claim that. It has nothing to with age—neither of us can legally drink yet—but with the life experiences we’ve endured.

I lower my lashes a little, draw a deep, slow breath, and let my hand slide onto my thigh as I sit back on the barstool.

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