Page 165 of Seven Lost Summers
“Fuck off. This coming from a man who sounds like a cat coughing up a hairball when he laughs.”
I grin. There she is. That smart-mouthed girl who never let Xander get away with shit, and who sure as hell isn’t letting me.
I drop onto the end of the couch and haul her legs into my lap like she’s some entitled queen who’s summoned her footman. She lets out a long, guttural groan when my thumbs dig into her arches.
Her head falls back like she’s about to ascend into the afterlife, all that blonde hair spilling over the cushions. “Oh my god. Marry me.”
I huff out a laugh, rolling my eyes as I dig a little deeper. “You only say that because I’m touching your plantar kink.”
Her foot twitches, but she doesn’t pull away. “Gross,” she mutters. “Don’t say plantar kink like it turns you on.”
I smirk. “Bit late for that. You moaned like I just proposed with a ring and a foot rub.”
She kicks at me half-heartedly. “Shut up and keep going. I’ll sign the prenup later.”
I slow it down, thumbs pressing deeper into her pressure points, working them in lazy, deliberate circles. “Pretty sure lover boy might have a problem with you coming onto me, Spitfire.”
One eye cracks open. “Please. You think he’s scared of a guy who once pulled a hamstring sneezing?”
I glare. “That was one time.”
She opens both eyes and smirks. “And yet somehow, it still lives in my head rent-free.”
The look lingers for a beat, and then her smile fades. “What’s going on, Theo?”
That’s the thing about Spitfire; she’s always been able to slice straight through my bullshit, slip past the grin, and land right in the crack beneath it all.
“Nothing.” I work my thumbs into her heel with deliberate focus, hoping the pressure there might be enough to steer her away from the truth.
“Theo.” Her tone softens, carrying that edge that’s always made it impossible for me to hide from her. “Is this about Quinn? I know you love her. I can see it.”
She sees everything. Which is why the words come out before I can stop them, words I have never let out for anyone else.
“I do love her, Spitfire,” I whisper.
Her eyes stay on mine.
“I love her, and I hate it,” I tell her, my voice fraying until it sounds foreign in my own ears. “Because the last time I felt something this big… this real… we buried her.”
Her gaze does not falter. She waits, peeling me apart without touching me.
“I keep thinking that if I give myself over to this, the universe will notice. It will take her the way it took Bianca. I walked through years where every heartbeat was a punishment. I can’t do that again.”
“The universe isn’t some sick fuck playing Russian roulette with your heart,” she says.
“Says who?”
“Me. The all-knowing, hormone-fueled goddess currently growing a human and putting up with your shit.” Her mouth curves with that smug little dare-me-to-disagree smile.
I let the quiet sit between us.
“Can I ask how Bianca died?” Poppy’s voice is softer now.
I swallow, the words etched into my brain from reading them so many times on the same fucking Google page, trying to understand how she could be here one minute and gone the next.
“Brain aneurysm rupture. Massive internal brain haemorrhage. She was unresponsive by the time Quinn called for help, and the paramedics couldn’t save her.”
She doesn’t speak.
