Page 7 of Merrily Ever After
“You’re my guardian angel,” I murmur under her palm.
“And you’re an idiot.” She removes her hand, gazing down at me with a look I can’t decipher. Pretty sure it’s verging on really annoyed, though. “What on earth were you doing?”
“What do you think?” I ask, but she just looks at me. “The house,” I press, slightly hurt that she hasn’t put two and two together.
“What about my house?”
“You didn’t go inside?”
“No,” she says, her expression alternating between suspicion and apprehension. “I was a little distracted by a phone call from the police station.”
“I see.” Isee. My mood lifts significantly knowing that I didn’t miss her reaction. That I might even get to see it in person. But while mine goes up, hers goes down.
“Oh no,” she says at my growing smile. “No. Oliver, what did you do?”
“It’s a good thing,” I insist, defensive. “And it wasn’t just me. Andrew and Molly helped too.”
“Who?”
“My partners in crime. I mean not crime,” I add loudly, spying the policeman outside. “Crime is bad.”
“Why did you break into my house?” she hisses, and I frown, not liking her tone.
“It’s not breaking in if I have the alarm code.”
“I gave you the code for emergencies.”
“How is Christmas not an emergency? It’s a good thing!” I exclaim again as she drags a hand down her face.
“I don’t have time to deal with this right now,” she tells me. “I’ve hardly slept in three days, and I’ve barely eaten in one. You always do this.”
“Do what?”
“Overwhelm me,” she says tiredly and for a moment I’m dumbstruck. But before I can ask what she means, a police officer sticks his head in.
“Let’s wrap this up,” he says. “Need this place for someone to sober up.”
“Happy to help,” I tell him, jumping to my feet.
Lara lingers by my side as I sign various forms at the desk and get my stuff back in a little plastic bag. I can’t tell if she’s mad at me or not. I don’t think she can tell either because she’s silent as we leave the station, staring hard at the ground. It’s not how I imagined this night going, and the instinct to make her smile kicks in as it always does.
“Would you like to get some ice cream?”
Her eyes flick to mine. “It’s freezing.”
“A hot chocolate, then.”
“It’s also nearly 1 a.m.”
“Is it?” I open the plastic bag and take out my phone to see she is, as always, correct. “A boozy hot chocolate then? Irish it up a little? I’m allowed to say that,” I add at her look. “I’m a direct descendant.”
“On one side.”
“On my mother’s side, which is all that counts according to her. Rachel Fitzpatrick has always been …” Oh, I’m an idiot. “How’s your mum?” I ask, and her gaze softens.
“Better. Thanks. For the card and the flowers and … thanks.”
“Of course.”
