Page 200 of The Catalyst

Beth was scared of me, and yet she fell in love with the darkest parts of my demented soul. She didn’t get some good guy persona. She got the real, raw, true version of me. She knew the real Oliver Doyle long before Aimee came back to town. When someone knows all the darkest parts of you before they develop romantic feelings, there’s nothing you can do that would scare them off.

She is fucking perfect for me because she is just as crazy and loves me regardless of my flaws. Her love is truly unconditional, and so is mine.

CHAPTER 79

BETH

“You’re late,” Vera says with a disappointed edge to her gaze.

My eyes widen as she lets us into her cabin. “Late? You said an hour.”

“It’s been sixty-three minutes,” Oliver adds.

She scowls at him. “When I say be here in an hour, I mean to be here and sitting at my table by the fifty-eight-minute mark. If you aren’t, you’re late. I wait around for no one.”

Wow. Vera is very particular, which I gotta respect. She knows what she wants and isn’t afraid to demand it.

Oliver goes to open his mouth, probably to say something stupid that will surely start an argument with our host, so I slap his chest and speak for him. “We’ll be sure to keep that in mind for the future. Thank you for opening your home to us. I really appreciate it, Vera.”

Oliver grumbles something unintelligible under his breath that I sincerely hope Vera didn’t hear. Fucking asshole. I love that asshole, but he’s still a stupid asshole.

Vera nods before turning, expecting us to follow her.

“You’re in an unusual situation, child. My niece never asks me for a favor. When she does, I always come through.” She guides us through her house full of taxidermy and old paintings with a Russian flare to them until we make it to the kitchen. Her kitchen is small and simple, with only three chairs around the table.

For a moment, I worry about the indoor plumbing of her property when I see the big red bucket under her sink and the lack of pipes, but my attention span isn’t the best.

“Sit,” she demands as she motions to the table, irritation across her face.

I expected some type of cuisine relative to her heritage, but from what I can tell, it’s just regular spaghetti and meatballs with garlic bread.

Ollie and I sit at the table, and Vera sits across from us. I have no idea if we should serve ourselves or if she wants to say grace. Is she religious?

“Eat! I’m not getting any younger.”

That answers my question.

Fully cautious of how any wrong move could upset our savior, I grab the bowl and serving spoon before loading a little on my plate. I still get residual morning sickness, and I would hate to offend this woman by vomiting up her food simply because I ate too much, even though I’m starving.

Next, Ollie fills his plate, his gaze dancing between me and Vera as I take a small bite of the spaghetti. I instantly salivate from the delicious blend of spices exploding on my tongue. Holy shit. Vera is a bomb-ass cook!

I try my best not to look like a starved beast as I chow down on the food.

“Why aren’t you going with the traditional method?” Vera speaks up, sipping her glass of either water or vodka, but given the alcohol scent wafting toward me, I’d go with vodka.

“Method? What do you mean?” I ask as I use my napkin, which is just a folded-up paper towel to wipe the red sauce from my lips. If she asks a question, I’ll answer it honestly.

“Adoption, of course.”

If I was eating or drinking right now, I’d choke from my shock at the word.

“Adoption?!”

Her eyes widen, then narrow into slits. “Yes,” she mutters like she’s on the edge of snapping at me. “My niece is adopting your child, correct?”

“No, that’snotcorrect at all.”

Let’s be clear: I have nothing against adoption. Some children are better off without their birth parents in their lives, and there are so many loving people in the world who can’t have children of their own or just want to help children who have not been adopted yet.

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