Page 33 of Leather & Lark
“What gave you the impression I hate him?”
“You saying, ‘Lachlan is a dickhead, I really hate that guy,’ might be one reason.”
I let out an unsteady laugh as I try not to fidget with the bouquet clutched in my iron grip. “Well, he can kind of be a dickhead, sure, buthatemight be a bit strong.”
Sloane turns toward me, the car still idling in park. “Tell me what the fuck is going on, Lark. You’re my best friend. You’re the most impetuous person I know, butthis? A random-as-fuck wedding to Lachlan Kane when you’ve spoken to each other what, like, five times? And all those times have been some kind of miserable? There has to be a reason for this sudden one-eighty.” She shakes her head as fresh tears well at her lash line. Her voice is barely more than a strained squeak when she says, “The math. It ain’t mathin’.”
I grab Sloane’s hand across the center console and stare into her eyes. It takes more force than it should to remain steadfast, to not cave to the temptation of sayingto hell with this insane planbefore I run away to fuck-knows-where. “I promise you, sweetie, everything will be okay.”
“But—”
“I love you,” I whisper as I lay a hand to the side of Sloane’s face. There’s no measure of relief in her expression when I give her a reassuring smile, one that feels discordant with the sting in my nose and the vise that grips my heart. “You don’t need to look after me this time, Sloane. I really just need you to trust me, no questions asked. I’ve got this.”
It takes a long moment, but Sloane finally reins in her tears. “Okay,” she says. “But if he hurts you, I swear to God I will take his fucking eyes.”
“Sounds good to me.”
“Slowly. With a rusty spoon. Like, a full-on gouging. Rough edges. Amateur-looking shit. Really shoddy work.”
“Okay. Well, you could leave me one eye.”
“I’m serious, Lark.”
“Yeah, me too. I think I’d probably enjoy having you teach me your tricks,” I say with a grin.
After a final, scrutinous look, Sloane shifts into drive and we pull away, headed for downtown Boston.
I connect my playlist to Sloane’s car on our ride to the courthouse for this auspicious day. “Chapel of Love” by the Dixie Cups. “Marry You” by Bruno Mars. It’s got a fun vibe that I’m hoping will buoy my mood. “Single Ladies” by Beyoncé, becauseobviously. Though I sing and have a smile ready whenever she glances my way, Sloane is having none of it.
“What about your mom and Damian?” she asks, turning the music down as we crawl closer to Boston City Hall through the midday traffic.
My heart squeezes. “What about them?”
“Won’t they be upset?”
“Maybe,” I reply, picking at the hem of my white satin jacket. My gaze shifts out the window and I squint at the passing buildings. “I think they’ve got plenty to worry about with Ethel though.”
“Not doing so well?” Sloane asks, and I shake my head. When I don’t look her way, she pulls my hand from my lap and holds it on the center console. “I’m sorry, Lark.”
“Thank you.” My brittle smile does little to reassure Sloane, judging by the way her brow furrows when she glances my way.“Maybe this will give them something to focus on instead of Auntie Ethel.”
Sloane’s face scrunches. “You think your elopement to a man they’ve never met will help with that?”
“Sure,” I say with a shrug. “Entertainment, you know? Something to take their minds off … stuff.”
“What kinds of stuff?”
“Like, Ethel dying stuff.”
“That’s not what you meant.”
“What else would I mean?”
Sloane sighs and her grip tightens on the steering wheel, her knuckles white across the bone. “Something such as, I don’t know, the real reason behind what is clearly a sham marriage to a man you loathe?”
“Sloane, I thought we just agreed. I’ve got this.”
“We didn’t agree to shit. You just told me not to worry, which makes me exponentially more worried.”
