Page 70 of Hard Luck (Blackstone House)

“Before you start drinking, I need to apologise.”

“Apologise? For what?”

“For pushing you. I thought we had a good thing going, and…I misjudged.”

There was that guilt again, eating away at me. “I’m sorry too. I shouldn’t have walked away like that, but I thought it would be the least painful way to do things. Every night we spent together… Ireallydon’t do relationships.”

Cole gave me a sheepish smile. “Friends? I promise I’ll never mention the R word again.”

I couldn’t say no to that. “Friends.”

“So, where are you off to? I thought you had deadlines this week? Or did you make that up so you wouldn’t have to spend more time with me?”

“I actually did have a big project I was working on, but I’ve been kinda stressed lately, so my friends ganged up and decided I needed a vacation. They’re covering the work for me.”

“Tell me Marcel isn’t going to be writing obituaries?”

Laughter burst out of me, and it was the first time I’d smiled in days. “Hell, no. He’ll bake cookies and act as cheerleader.”

“Brayden di Rococo slipped away from this world on the morning of July seventh, like a final, whispered line in an epic fairy tale,” Cole mimicked, doing a remarkably good impression of Marcel, even though they’d never met. “His departure, much like his life, was marked by a quiet grace that belied the passionate heart beating beneath his photogenic exterior and rippling abs.”

“Don’t…”

“Brayden was survived by his three pet dachshunds and preceded in death by his companion of five years, Danté, the love of his life and loins, and partner in a romance that stood the test of time. Their love was an epic union of turgid shafts and…and… I’m trying to think of a fancy way to say ‘buttholes.’”

And this was why I liked Cole. He hadn’t taken it personally that I’d broken up with him, and he wasn’t bearing the mother of all grudges. You know what Bastian’s last words to me were? Right before I shot him?Maybe if I hadn’t taken second place to your job, things would have been different.Asshole. Just because I didn’t enjoy socialising every single evening didn’t mean— Aaaaaaand I was getting angry again. Even from beyond the grave, Bastian had that effect on me.

The jet’s engines rumbled to life, and I forced myself to reset.

To kick Bastian into the past where he belonged.

“I’m not sure there is a fancy word for ‘butthole.’”

“Glistening rosebud?”

I grimaced. “No?”

“Knothole of love?”

“Please, spare me.”

This was short-haul business class, not transcontinental, so there were no lay-flat beds, just bigger seats, better food, and free entertainment. No cosy little walls separating us from the other passengers. A woman leaned across from the other side of the aisle.

“Is it really appropriate to discuss such disgusting things in business class?”

“So is it okay if we discuss buttholes in coach? Or was it the gay romance part that offended you?”

“Well, I?—”

“You know what? If you don’t eavesdrop on people’s private conversations, you’ll find a lot less to get offended about.” I fished around in my amenity kit and found the earplugs. “Here, have these. You need them more than I do.”

She spluttered a bit and threatened to call a flight attendant. Whatever. I focused my attention on Cole instead.

“Slippery starfish,” I whispered in his ear, and he snorted.

He’d missed me, and maybe I’d missed him a little bit too.

“I can’t believe you said that to her,” he whispered back.

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