Page 87 of High Notes & Hail Marys

“No,yousaid I’d eat half,” he corrects you with an impish smile.

You roll your eyes. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you, babe.”

“Noted.”

At that point, it seems silly to not open the wine. It’s cheap, carbonated swill, even to your uncultured palate, but it goes down fizzy and fruity. Sterling and you swap the bottle back and forth. The neck is warm from his hand, and the opening is wet where his mouth was. It’s too early for the brownie to have had any effect, so you’re just being horny and stupid. Sterling leans backagainst the cushions embossed with his initials.

Twenty minutes later, Alis erupts in awoothat demands everyone’s attention.

“I finished my bottle first!” she squeals. “What do I get?”

“You get a bloody hangover,” Ronnie gripes. “This shite is pure trash. Must have come from Tesco’s bargain bin.”

“Oy!” Phoebe complains. She’s got her head on Flame-o’s shoulder, and he’s dreamily considering their entwined fingers. “Nobody said it was a contest!”

Crestfallen, Alis holds up her empty bottle. “Well, I’m saying I won, anyway.”

“We need some music!” Ronnie declares. “Ster, this thing has to have a sound system. Where are the controls?”

Sterling has turned around so that his head is on your shoulder. Your feet are on the ground, and he’s leaning against you. Honestly, you thought he was asleep. The bottle you’ve been sharing is almost tapped, and he’s been still for a few minutes.

“To the left of the galley,” he announces. His voice sounds surprisingly clear.Hmm, guess he wasn’t sleeping after all.“The panel on the wall—no, thatlittle door, see there with the groove? Yeah, that’s it. It’s Bluetooth, so you can sync it to your phone, or otherwise use the satellite radio.”

“Do the radio,” Alis hiccups. “Nobody wants your crummy playlists, Ronnie.”

“The music wasmyidea!” Ronnie says, but she fiddles with the radio controls anyway.

It’s a pop station. Bright music fills the cabin. Outside, it’s deep in the night, but inside, it’s warm and lively. The girls are distracted, singing along with Chappell Roan.

You rub Sterling’s arm, tracing the broken line of his bent elbow. “You doing all right?”

“I’m a little tipsy from that godawful wine,” he says, “but nothing crazy. I don’t think that brownie worked. I don’t feel anything. Other than the sense that I’m going to have a headache in the morning.”

The laughter that bubbles in your throat escapes before you can help it.

“Patience, young grasshopper,” you say. “I don’t feel anythingare the famous last words of people messing with edibles for the first time.”

“But it’s been… a long time, now.”

“It’s been just over a half hour,” you correct him. “It can take a while. Just enjoy the vibes.”

He makes a noncommittal, grumbly noise that is honestly very endearing. You excuse yourself to use the bathroom just as the song changes, and you hear some very familiar notes over the high-tech speakers. The girls scream as the intro of “pretty please” starts playing.

“I’m not singing it!” Sterling laughs. “You just heard me sing it on stage! C’mon!”

Alis starts crooning the opening lyrics as you shut the door.

Chapter Twenty-One

In London, it’s almost two in the morning. The Lewis sisters are varying levels of buzzed off the wine and brownies, and effusive with their hugs and cheek-kisses goodbye. You get the sense that Sterling is only half-joking when he tells them not to trash his plane on the way back to Edinburgh. Personally, you bet that they all sleep. Alis, especially, looks dead on her feet.

Somewhere during the descent, Sterling went decidedly wobbly. Now, his eyes are glassy, and his gait is unsteady. Cal meets the plane.

“Are you okay, Mister Grayson?” he asks within three seconds of laying eyes on Sterling. There is the faintest note of concern coloring his voice.

“A-okay, Cal,” Sterling mumbles.

Cal raises an eyebrow in your direction.

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