Page 80 of Gin and Lava

I swear, if he says the wordwhoreI’m going to punch him in the face.

But Trifecta is too polite for that, instead his expression says everything for him:You disgust me, Naomi. I don’t understand you anymore. You should be ashamed of yourself for whatever you’re doing with this asshole.

I should punch him in the face for that look and defendmy ownhonor.

It’s nothing new, of course. Not to me. It’s the same reason Esme, and Connor, and Ned would never believe Naomi and I were a real thing. We’re a statistical impossibility. A defiance of the natural world. No one expects us to actually be together—andthisis why. No one wants to be on the receiving end ofthat look.

Naomi is pale white, all the blood draining from her face to reveal how much power Trifecta still wields over her. He’s metaphorically smacked her across the face and thrown her in a corner with that glare, and I can already see her starting to spin into a shame spiral.

Asshole.

I turn and snag Naomi’s face in my hands, cupping her cheeks and forcing her to look at me. Her eyes are red and watery, though the tears haven’t actually started falling.

God-damn him!

“Hey,” I say in a low voice, so only she can hear me. “You’re a Viking Princess, remember? He’s a piece of scum.”

Her eyes waver, trying to channel her inner goddess, but finding nothing.

She regrets this charade; that’s what those eyes are saying.

She regrets bringing me.

I shake my head. I don’t give in that easily. “Don’t give that asshole any power,” I growl. “What do Viking Princesses do with pieces of shit like him? They cut their heads off with broad swords. That’s what. Or they drown them in the ocean. Then they go back to their villages and fuck whoever the hell they want, and they don’t regret any of it. He’s not your boyfriend. He doesn’t get a say in what you do.”

A tiny muscle feathers at the side of Naomi’s check, threatening to turn into a smile, but it never fully catches.

“I wish the world was that simple,” she says quietly. “Your version of me sounds wonderful.”

“It’s not a lie,” I insist. “I don’t pull my punches.”

“I’m pretty sure you wanted to punch Sam just now.”

“Fine,” I concede. “One punch. But he’s not worth busting my knuckles over.”

She nods, listening, but my words aren’t as powerful as Trifecta’s. Hell, he didn’t evensayanything to her, and he’s crumpled her into a ball.

Love really does fuck you over. Especially when you’re the one who lost.

Trifecta is gone—in the restroom, or just bailed. I don’t care. All I care about is making sure Naomi doesn’t continue to look like Sam took a scalpel and carved out her sternum.

“Can we get out of here?” I ask, and Naomi glances around the rest of the table uncomfortably. Only, nobody here is even paying attention to us. Shauri is supposed to be her friend, but she hasn’t even turned in our direction. The rest of the wedding party is laughing at something one of the bridesmaids has said, and they’re completely oblivious to Trifecta’s polite exodus.

I search Naomi’s face, but I can’t tell if she’s happy they haven’t noticed, or if she’s upset she’s invisible.

“Hey,” I say, getting Naomi’s attention back. “You’ve got the rest of the week to hang out with these guys. Why don’t we call it a night.”

Naomi nods weakly, then turns to Shauri and tells her something about airbeds and making arrangements for the beach house. It’s followed by half-a-dozen face-hugger maulings from the bride-to-be before we’re clear of the restaurant and heading for Naomi’s truck.

“Are you okay?” I venture when we get to her parking spot. I followed all the rules to a T, but somehow bringing the asshole Tiki-bar owner to dinner still feels like it blew up in her face. And Trifecta is a piece of work and a half.

“Yeah,” she says weakly, unlocking her truck, but everything else about her screamsthat was a disaster.

“Your ex is an asshole,” I state, because it’s the truth, and maybe if she hears it five-hundred times, she’ll start to believe it. “But I realize what I think doesn’t matter,” I continue. “So if you want to call this fiancé bullshit off right now, we can. You can walk back into that restaurant and tell everyone you broke up with me for being a douche bag. Because let’s be real, even at Ned and Olivia’s wedding you were a broken record telling me to shut up. You and me don’t really make sense in this … universe.”

I motion to her designer dress and the fact that I’m dressed like I own a funeral parlor. Then, I motion to the fancy restaurant I’ve never been to before, because I don’t care about that pretentious shit.

“You weren’t a douche bag,” Naomi defends.

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