Page 94 of Scythe & Sparrow
I don’t have to look over to feel the radiant heat of Sloane’s triumphant smile. But I do still glance her way. Her hazel eyes dance in the dim light. Her dimple winks at me with mischief. “I’ll be back soon,” Sloane says as she opens the car door. “Maybe with snacks.”
Though I say her name in a final protest, she’s already closing the door, her devious cackle following in her wake.
I twist as much as my costume will allow and watch as she jogs down the gravel road toward the barn, the urge to follow her nearly consuming me. But she’s right. Though I’m sure this barn dance is a pretty close-knit affair where everyone knows everyone, Sloane at least has a chance of flying under the radar. I, on the other hand, do not.
“Rowan Kane, youfeckin’ eejit,” I hiss as she disappears from view and I settle back into my seat. “You willneverlive this down if she wins.”
And then I wait.
And wait.
And wait.
I’m debating whether I should get out and check on her when I look toward the barn and spot Sloane jogging back toward the car. It’s only been forty-five minutes, just enough time for the sun to set and the colors of the sky to deepen, but it feels likehours. Relief fills my chest when she pulls open the door and slides into the driver’s seat with a satisfied sigh.
“Productive?” I ask.
She shrugs, but her voice is just a hint too breezy when she says, “Not really.”
“Did you find anything useful?”
“Only this,” she says as she pulls a bottle of liquor from beneath her flannel shirt. She passes it to me with a grin so bright it blares her thoughts like a beacon—thoughts entirely centered on irritating the shit out of my broody older brother.
“What the hell is that?”
“Moonshine, probably. I overheard someone say it was whiskey but I have my doubts. So I hope dragons can sing, because I expect ‘The Rocky Road to Dublin’ at full volume tonight.”
“Well,” I reply as I read the homemade label before I place it on the floor behind me, “this dragon can’t sing, but I’m certainly going to do it anyway.”
“That’s my Sol.” Sloane leans over the center console and presses her lips to mine. Her scent of ginger and vanilla floods my senses as though it’s permeating my skin, embedding itself where it belongs. I graze her cheek with my knuckles, tracing the constellation of freckles that dusts her skin, a pattern I know by heart. As my fingers thread into her hair, she sighs into my mouth, pressing her lips harder to mine, moving closer, and just as I deepen the kiss, she pulls away.
“Gross,” she says, her nose crinkling.
“Gross?Gross, Blackbird? I am mortally wounded.”
Sloane giggles as she opens the compartment in the center console to retrieve a tissue and wipe her lips off. “Your makeup. You can’t taste that?”
“I was committed to the bit. I must be desensitized.”
“That doesnottaste like lipstick, Rowan.” She pulls the visor down and checks that she’s rubbed any remnants of green from her mouth. With a sideways glance, she assesses my face, her eyes lingering on my lips before she returns her attention to the little mirror. “Are you one hundred percent sure you used face paint?”
“Umm … mostly …?”
Sloane’s head whips to the side and she pins me with a scrutinous glare. “What do you mean ‘mostly’?”
“It wasn’t staying on super well, so I … augmented it.”
“Augmented it … with …?” When I break my gaze away with a cringe, she whacks my arm. “Rowan Kane—”
“Poster paint.”
The car sinks into an eerie silence. This might be how I die. My wife will probably murder me and dump my body into a field. I weigh my chances for survival. I can cook, that has to count for something, right? And she thinks I’m pretty—at least, she does when I’m not in a full dragon costume complete with foam horns and layers of silicone scales. But she’s pretty fast. And stabby. And she goes for the eyes.
It takes a long moment before I look at her. When I do, I’m not sure she’s actually breathing. She’s so lethally still that I don’t know if I should maybe just take my chances and run for it.
And then she bursts out laughing.
It’s so loud and sudden that it startles me, and that seems to delight her even more. She laughs and laughs and fuckinglaughs.
