Page 108 of Good Losers (Lochkelvin Academy)

“But he seemed really intoTattle.”

“Of course he is. They distrust new money and he’s secretly desperate for their validation. Probably still pissed he came, what, last in that stupid list they have of eligible bachelors.”

“You were first,” I point out unnecessarily.

Rory grins at me. “Well, I should bloody well hope so.” When he notes me fiddling anxiously with my cutlery, he adds in a soothing tone, “I don’t want to marry, or even date, a copy of myself. I don’t want anyone but you. How many times do I have to say it? Because I’ll keep saying it for you. You prove a challenge, something new and unknown, and I rather like that.”

“Enough for marriage?”

“I’m sorry,” Rory drawls, not sounding sorry at all. “Perhaps I was too British and understated for you in that last statement. By ‘I rather like that,’ I mean every morning, after an entire night spent dreaming about you, I wake up and you’re my first thought. You consume my every emotion, Jessa. Whenever I laugh, I keep the joke in my head so I can repeat it to you later just to see you smile. When I’m sad, I’m determined to keep it aside because you deserve my best self. I am profoundly in over my head. You’ve messed with me and my worldview enough to believe marriage may be a reasonable solution.”

Before I can respond to any of this — not that I can, because I’m doing the goldfish thing again — the waiter clears away our plates.

“I didn’t intend to make you panic,” Rory adds swiftly, the moment the waiter leaves. “But I do not do half-measures. I do not want to be in a relationship for the wrong reasons, if it is, ultimately, to go nowhere. My parents’ marriage was strong to me, growing up. They were the idyllic fairytale couple. And I want to honor that by being with the right person for the right reasons.” He leans forward, looking hesitant. “So if you are in any doubt about where this could be heading… If you still secretly detest me, if you are sick to the back teeth of me…”

“What?” It’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard; as if I could do anything other than crave Rory endlessly.

“I’m just saying, little saint. Because if any of that is true, if I’ve read everything about us completely wrong and marriage is not an option, then I’d rather not waste my time anymore. Breaking up with you is something I never, ever wish to contemplate. It would be too painful, and I think I’m right in saying it would hurt us both.”

With great reluctance, I think of life without Rory. It seems empty, desolate, and I quickly clear my head to get rid of the image.

From across the table, Rory takes my hand. He squeezes it between his fingers as though claiming it as his own.

“The longer we’re together, the stronger we’ll become,” Rory says as though this is some kind of wise truism, sweeping his thumb across my knuckles. “So if there’s anything you’re holding back, anything you need to tell me, any concern or worry that this isn’t the direction you want to travel in, that you want out or away from me, then tell me now, because I don’t want either of us to be hurt down the line.”

My hand stills between Rory’s as I picture the scene from the previous night in explicit fashion, touching myself to orgasm while resting on Finlay’s chest. Cradled in his arms. Circling his beaded nipple with the flat of my tongue. Licking his palm to give him lube.

I don’t know if this is the kind of thing Rory’s requesting, and I also hope to God it isn’t a thing that makes Rory stand up and leave the restaurant without a backward glance.

But it has to be out there. I can’t keep it buttoned up any longer. This isn’t a straightforward relationship between two people, but a messy criss-cross between at least three.

“Finlay,” I whisper, and Rory’s expression remains perfectly neutral. “Youknowthis isn’t just about me and you. Whether you want it or not, Finlay’s involved, too.”

I’m on the verge of blurting everything we’ve been up to, to provoke some reaction from Rory, but his face is one of utter indifference. There is no chink, no indication, that he’s struggling to come to terms with the idea of the three of us.

In fact, there’s no indication Rory even heard my words except for the sudden flare of heat in his eyes.

“I know,” Rory says, and it’s just two words, two simple words, that can be interpreted in a variety of ways, but they’re as much of a relief for me as the unlacing of a rigid corset.

“You know?” I dare to ask, almost sagging in my chair.

There’s a pause, as though Rory’s deciding the best way to break it to me. “You come to me with bite marks on your throat,” he murmurs, and as the meaning of his words sinks in, my face suddenly burns with shame. Around mine, Rory’s hand scalds my skin. But he doesn’t stop the onslaught of words in his cool, thoroughly English detachment. “There are nail indents on your back, crescents on your backside. All these secret areas you can’t see, where Finlay’s marked and clawed at you like a mad, possessive tiger.” There’s a beat, where I wonder if my cheeks can turn redder. Already, I feel like a bright, sizzling stove, that maybe I should offer up my services to the restaurant chefs.

“Those marks aren’t for you,” Rory continues, after another tense pause. “They’re for me. Small, petty messages for me. ‘Look what I’ve been up to. Look what I’ve done to your girl. Look what you made me do.’”

I stare at Rory in astonishment, wondering how he can remain so calm. “Finlay does it deliberately?”

“Fin does everything deliberately.”

“Does he know?”

“He knows I won’t bring it up with him,” Rory says, “which is why his marks have got increasingly vicious. You come to me, and I massage them, I stroke them, I heal them one by one, and then they clear. I bring him a fresh canvas, he sends me back a ruined one.”

I try to wrap my head around it, that I’m the canvas. That these two idiot boys have made some kind of twisted game out of the marks on my flushed skin.

“You aren’t angry?”

Rory tilts his head to the side in thought, as though trying to analyze his precise emotions in that particular moment. “Why do you look so guilty? If I didn’t want you to be with Fin, I would never have invited him to the loch. Besides,” he adds cagily, his eyes drifting away from me for the first time all evening, “I thought that was your fantasy. More than one person. That’s what you told me.”

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