Chapter Text
Penelope blurted out her suggestion with absolutely zero expectation Colin would do anything more than guffaw.
He’d shown up and flopped onto his back in the grass nearby the pond where Eloise and Penelope had just finished their annual dunking. (Whether or not it was warm enough for the occasion, they always did a full-body dunk upon arriving at Aubrey Hall at the start of the summer holiday.) Then, shutting his eyes dramatically, Colin had grumped that Anthony was forcing him to get a summer job before he’d sign off on any paperwork for study abroad programs.
“And forget about a gap year—he’s a bloody tyrant is what he is,” Colin had groused.
And then Penelope had huddled under her towel, offered him her most encouraging grin, and blurted, “You could come work with me this summer. It’s only three weeks and it pays really well.”
For the past six summers, Penelope had worked at a locally beloved renaissance festival. Known as Flagons and Flails, the festival sported a robust makers’ market, themed food and beverages, sword-fighting tutorials, and a live show where men in actual suits of armor pretended to joust and simpered for the court of corseted ladies wearing conical hats.
Penelope had started working the ticket booth up front, then as a barmaid in the tavern, and for the last three years had been in charge of the live show.
It was dorky, and temporarily all-consuming, and she doubted there was a bone in Colin Bridgerton’s body that wanted to have anything to do with it.
Which was why she was properly gobsmacked when he sat up on his elbows and beamed up at her, no teasing glint to be found. “You really think they’d have a spot for me? I’m actually pretty decent on a horse, but I’d muck the stables if the pay is good enough.”
“You have to live on the grounds for the three weeks,” Eloise said, wrinkling her nose and tugging her towel around her shoulders tighter. “They’re rustic servants’ cabins, and there’s an outhouse.”
Colin wrinkled his nose back at her. “All the better to convince Anthony I won’t be some rich, spoiled brat when I get the chance to travel. Roughing it, getting my hands dirty, and without the luxury of outdoor plumbing? I’m there. Are there try-outs? An application I need to fill out?”
Pumping her mouth in shock, Penelope spluttered, “I’ll tell the organizer you’re interested. I’m sure they’ll find something.”
Exactly one week later, Colin helped her load her bags into the boot of his car and put her in charge of the playlist while they set off for the farmstead where the festival was hosted every year, just an hour from Aubrey Hall.
“They told me they’re looking for another knight for the live show. That’s what I should go after, right?” Colin drummed his fingers nervously on the steering wheel. “I told her I didn’t have a horse to bring, but—“
“If you really want to be a performer, then yeah, absolutely. It certainly seems more fun than mucking out stalls, or over-serving the oafs who come into the tavern night in and night out.” Penelope fiddled nervously with the sleeve on her shirt, tugging it over her hand to conceal her chewed-up fingernails.
“Well, you work the stage show.” Colin turned the radio up a touch. “It’d be nice to cross paths with you, if I don’t get to actually work with you.”
Penelope knew better than to read too much into silly little throwaway statements like these, but she was only a girl desperately in love with said boy, so she melted a bit as she turned to look at him. “You see me all the time,” she deferred, daring him to reinforce her girlish fantasy.
Rolling his eyes slightly, Colin shot her a crooked smirk. “You’re my friend, Pen. I want to see you all the time. Particularly when I’m starting a brand new job and don’t know anybody there.”
She thought of the court of ladies who got to wear the beautiful, handmade jewel-tone dresses and fan themselves while giggling and tittering over the knights’ heroics in the stadium. “I’m sure you’ll meet some friends.”
He hummed in faux thoughtfulness. “Doesn’t mean I should spurn my existing ones.”
She puffed up the barest amount, pleased to be counted in such elite company, then bit her lip and looked out the window. Colin was, and always had been, kind. It was one of her favorite things about him, but it also made her mental with wondering.
Because when he told her that he thought she looked fetching in that cute little oversized stretchy jumpsuit she wore over the top of her bathing suit during the summer, what did he really mean? Had he noticed her the way she noticed him? Or was he simply paying her a compliment knowing she never felt quite at home in her own skin?
The worst of it was that Penelope was pleased with both answers, although she wanted desperately for him to be driven to distraction by her mere presence the way she was by his.
It would be nice for Colin to see her as a woman, even if she was only just beginning to become that woman. She was familiar enough with his flirting—having watched it happen right in front of her nose countless times—that if he ever turned that high-powered laser beam on her, she would both recognize it and instantly combust.
But oh would it be a delicious burning.
At the farmstead, Penelope had him park by the staff’s cluster of cabins, led him to the boys’ bunks, gave him a brief tour of the summer-camp style communal showers and toilets, then dragged him to the main office (actually a repurposed farm-stand) and introduced him to the head organizer, Lucy Granville.
“Ah, another Bridgerton!” she greeted him.
Colin froze, his eyes wide, wondering precisely which family member she had already encountered, no doubt.
“Benedict,” Lucy said, sticking out her hand for him to shake. “He and my husband bump into each other in the art world rather frequently. Penelope said your name is Colin?”
Penelope loitered in the background, not sure why she was nervous for him, but she was unwilling to give them privacy and neither of them seemed overly concerned that she was pacing like a mother hen, so she stayed.
Listened to Colin Bridgerton charm his way right into a chance at the head knight’s spot, promising he would quickly get back up to snuff on horseback before the show opened to the public. Nodding his understanding that he’d be schmoozing the audience and winking at the ladies and getting beat up just a little bit, despite the armor.
When it was all settled and he’d signed a few forms and liability waivers that made Penelope just a little anxious, he asked about food. Wondering if she would regret it, Penelope showed him to the cafeteria with the commercial kitchen and helped him get to work making himself a pile of food.
He chatted the whole time he worked, which suited Penelope just fine. She could chop apples and watch him smirking and chuckling at his own jokes while he dug in cupboards looking for pans and cutting boards. She could adore him and not work so hard to keep it off her face because he was preoccupied, although the one time he did glance up and catch her in the act, she’d jolted and tried to recover only to find him grinning warmly back at her.
Then, to her horror, he asked about her.
What she was up to now that she was about to start her first term at uni, what creative writing classes she was signed up for, if she planned to go out for any extra-curriculars like the school newspaper or forensics team. For a moment, she was gobsmacked that he remembered so much of what she’d been blathering to him about this past year when he’d inexplicably started being more accessible than he’d ever been. Then, recovering (albeit not smoothly), she’d scraped her chopped apples into a mixing bowl and started chopping a great handful of walnuts.
“I’m going out of my comfort zone and taking a few poetry classes. The professor I wanted for the short fiction class is on sabbatical for a year, so I’ll take it second year, I think.” Frowning softly, she sighed. “It means I have to take one of the upper-level classes a little earlier than I want. But it will all make me a better writer, so there’s that.”
“Do they let you write anything here?”
She blushed slightly. “The pamphlet you get at the welcome gate is mine. I write the program for the live event, too, but that’s informational. A flowery introduction to the events.”
“And what about the show?” Colin pressed, looking curious. “I’m the one of the knights—what am I in for?”
“Oh, it’s really not complicated. We generally find some sort of big story to tell, but it sort of presents itself as you figure out what works. If you and Fife get on really well, we might have the two of you team up against a third foe, although the most popular shows usually…”
Penelope hesitated. She didn’t really want to admit that she and her dork friends had spent several summers inventing medieval-style romance stories to tell in the background of the jousting competition. Nor did she want Colin to be part of some silly romantic story involving one of those waify, empty-headed girls who came back year after year to stand around like semi-sentient topiary until it was time for the winning knight to kiss the backs of their hands and offer his favorite a silken favor.
If she had to see Colin dressed up as a literal knight in shining armor handing off a silk kerchief to Cressida Cowper? She might burn down the farm. Or all of England. Maybe the whole world for good measure.
”Usually?” Colin tossed a pile of chopped lettuce into her bowl with the apples and walnuts.
“Usually have the two final knights trying to win a lady in the court’s favor. The princess obviously being the most popular.” Penelope pictured herself wearing her backstage headset lingering at the edge of the stable to watch the champion take his victory lap while the crowd roared, feeling very pleased to have been part of it without waltzing out into the spotlight for a moment to herself.
On the last day, they always dragged her out to center of the muddy stage and held her arms aloft, and someone with a microphone gave her a hearty shoutout, but she was usually dressed in a barmaid’s outfit with her hair in a braid, streaked with mud and holding a clipboard.
“Well, once we get rehearsals going, you and I can brainstorm something to shake it up.” Colin located a tin of canned chicken and popped the tab, rushing to the sink to drain it. “Let’s both have a spot of fun, yeah?”
Penelope couldn’t help but smile. Couldn’t help but love him.
⚔️🐎⚔️
Colin’s horse, unsurprisingly, was smitten the moment he passed her a stolen sugar cube and cooed her name in her perked ear. She nuzzled into him, took a knee to help him mount her, and did everything he asked of her. She was a show horse and knew all sorts of fancy footwork, but Colin rode her like a boy who’d grown up around horses and then promptly lost interest around puberty.
Still, he was calm and tall and he spoke in a nice, soft voice that made all the creatures of a female persuasion stop and sigh when he used it. And he’d been delighted by her name—Aphrodite.
While many were toiling away constructing the temporary buildings and stringing electricity to the essential, Penelope gathered with the cast of performers at the practice pasture where their six knights were getting introductions to their steeds and shaking each other’s hands.
This year they had a wizard who did some clever magic between rounds of jousting and swordplay, and there was the same fellow who came around every year to juggle and make jokes in a jester’s costume. There were new faces, but not many.
Penelope took a bullhorn from Lucy when the horses were sufficiently warmed up and the crew had quieted some to decide next steps.
“We’ll have the relay race first. So, just a few barrels and small jumps. First team of three to complete the circuit wins.” She consulted her notes on her trusty clipboard. “First to be cut will be the slowest one of you to complete the circuit today, solo.”
She could read Colin’s nerves from across the pasture when the other knights lined up and prepared for the obstacle course, even while the other stable hands, Penelope included, hurried to place barrels and other obstacles. Lucy parked herself at the top of a fence post with a stopwatch.
Kendrick Basilio went first, his pace not too frenzied or too lazy, though his mare did pause once to nibble at some grass that hadn’t been trampled already. He returned to the starting line and Penelope dutifully wrote down the numbers on Lucy’s stopwatch next to his name as she paced just inside the fence and pointed at the next contender.
Colin’s horse, for the first time, nickered and flattened her ears.
When they had left for the practice pasture, Penelope had made a stop in the kitchen to stuff her bag with snacks, suspecting Colin would start grumbling about food hours before they broke for lunch. Which meant she had nice, juicy apples stashed in her bag. Perhaps not terribly filling, but it might give him the tiniest boost of confidence knowing she was rooting for him, and that she had thought of him.
Her cheeks burning slightly, she located her bag, dredged up an apple, and sneaked along the row of horses and riders waiting in a queue, taking great pains to avoid their blind spots and hindquarters until she was standing, her head craned all the way back, to look up at Colin on his mount.
“Here,” she squeaked, holding up the apple like it was some kind of talisman.
Hesitating, Colin took it from her. Then, smiling, he held it out for Aphrodite to sniff. Her lips pursed and her teeth flashed, and before Penelope could warn him, she’d bitten the apple in half, chomping on her piece with a gleeful stomp of her hooves.
And Colin, the lovable dork that he was, simply flipped the apple over and took a bite from the unslobbery side. “Thanks, Pen!”
She gaped up at him, wondering why on earth knowing he’d traded spit with a horse was making her want to climb onto that saddle and stick her tongue down his throat, but she’d stopped asking herself questions like that one a long time ago.
He could slip on a banana peel and land in a gutter and she’d probably still want to lick him head to toe.
“Penelope!” Lucy called as Clark Basilio came skidding to a halt just past the combination start and finish line.
She dashed over to record the results, then settled in, refusing to look over at Colin until her cheeks cooled.
Fife always refused to go until he was the only rider remaining. The others all made their runs before Colin, but when it came down to just the two of them, Fife insisted he go first, smirking mightily. Feeling unreasonably irritated about it, Penelope scowled and put a little dot next to Fife’s name. To remind herself she would be justified taking some kind of petty, meaningless revenge in the future.
Colin’s technique was sloppy, but Aphrodite adored him. He was also a natural showman, and one who seemed genuinely excited to be there. Though they hadn’t yet introduced the armor—something which always threw new performers for a loop—he was obviously turning out to be quite the contender. As he and Aphrodite bounced over the finish line, he let out a breathless laugh and bent to scratch along his horse’s neck, searching all along the fence until he found Penelope, his exuberance contagious.
She scribbled down his time and fought the insane urge to doodle a little heart next to it.
Fife, predictably, turned over the best time. But he looked like he was annoyed about it, his turns tight and clinical, his head and shoulders down, his feet kicking relentlessly into his stallion’s sides until they came barreling over the finish line, the rider panting and the horse snorting in irritation.
“Right, Charlie, you’ll be the first one cut when your team finishes last. The teams will be divided as follows.” Lucy stood up, balancing on the lower rung of the fence, one hand on the post that had been her seat. “Fife, you’ll have Basilio and Charlie Cho, so that leaves Colin, Theo, and Phillip.”
Without having to be told, the troupe of knights divided into two factions, squaring up to one another with playful scowls and trash talk to match. Fife scoffed as he squared up with Colin, but he looked equally uninterested in the other two members of Colin’s team.
Penelope darkened her foreboding little dot next to Fife’s name.
The six of them turned their heads in almost perfect unison to find her standing in her gnarliest muck boots beside the fence.
She consulted her clipboard. “Next we’re going to have a dummy set up and your job will be to behead it.” She smirked at the excited titter that broke out amongst the boys, knowing they’d be chuffed to have a chance to swing a sword, even if it was painfully dull and heavier than it looked. “Day of we’re going to use various melons so we can get the splatter effect, but today we’re going to see who can get the most buckets off the dummy.”
They began an impromptu tournament with each rider taking a run at what looked to be an old scarecrow with a mop bucket upended on its stake. Someone (Penelope strongly suspected Theo) had drawn a scowling, heavily eyebrowed face on one side of the bucket, the other side an open mouth, tongue lolling out, the eyes drawn as Xs.
Though she tried not to show it, she was delighted when Fife outright failed to even hit the dummy on his first pass, having to take a zero for his first run. He was incensed about it, of course, but there was no one else to blame but himself, so he had no choice but to sulk by himself while his horse drank deep from the trough, ignoring the other competitors.
She was, as she always was, most interested in Colin, anyway. He took his very first run, drawing the scuffed-up and dinged practice sword they were all sharing as he went galloping toward the scarecrow, and swept it up and outward as he stood up in his stirrups, lifting the bucket clean off the scarecrow’s shoulders. It flew upward, the handle clanging loudly, tumbling end over end, until Colin reached the opposite end of the pasture and turned his horse around. Then, hefting his sword, he hooted just as it hit the ground.
The score was pass or fail, either a one or a zero. Penelope wished there were points for flair, but she had not planned to take theatrics into account. Instead, she scribbled the smallest star she could next to Colin’s entry.
They went through three more games before Penelope had to explain that the entire performance would cultivate in a gladiator-style head to head combat with swordplay and jousting, but claimed that when they had selected the final two knights they would begin practicing with a fight choreographer (a title that made Will Mondrich laugh even if it was technically accurate). Until then, they simply had to sigh and daydream about the lances and bicker over who wore what colors on their shields.
“I’ll take yellow!” Colin cried brightly, snatching it up as if anyone else were clamoring for the cheerful shield decorated with a hand-painted sun.
He brought Aphrodite over to Penelope and held the shield out to her. “Like my favorite pall mall mallet,” he explained, stroking the edges and swiping his fingers through his hair to clear it from his eyes.
Penelope scratched Aphrodite’s muzzle. “It suits you both. Having fun?”
“I can’t believe I’m getting paid for this,” he admitted with a chuckle. “If Anthony asks, it was a lot of hard work.”
She passed him up another snack from her bag. “It is a lot of work. Even if it’s fun, too.”
He took a canteen of water from her and drunk deeply before passing it back with another one of his warm, eye-crinkling smiles. “Still, I think he’ll be happier to hear I spent a summer sweating my arse off and cursing his name.”
“So curse his name, because you are sweating your arse off,” she quipped, biting her lip as Colin’s head fell back and a laugh erupted out of his chest.
“I’m going to put her up—we have to go help with the village now, right?”
Penelope joined him because she didn’t know how to stop following him like a shadow, hanging up his saddle and tack, fetching a scoop of oats for her to munch on, and watching as Colin gave her a quick brush and whispered his honeyed words in her ear, thanking her for a good showing.
They put in an hour with the construction crew helping hammer some nails and support some sagging joists as they put together the tavern, roasted meats stall, and merchandise booth. Then, when the sun was directly overhead, Penelope announced the cooking staff would soon be serving lunch and had to jog to keep up with Colin as he made a beeline for the kitchen.
She sat, holding a space for him at her table, which was empty except for herself, Lucy, and Will. The other tables filled up quickly, the entire court of simpering ladies all sitting together and talking out of the sides of their mouths as they surveyed this year’s crop of knights.
“Budge up, Pen,” Colin instructed, holding two plates positively laden with food.
She briefly caught Lucy’s eye, noting that the older woman had smiled and squeezed her eyes halfway shut (like she knew a secret), then obediently scooted over an entire place setting so Colin could set down both his plates and start gobbling.
He bumped his knee against her leg under the table, grinning while he chewed. “What’s next?”
“Lighting,” she answered, picking at her own plate, feeling like the whole table of judgmental girls was burning a hole in the back of her head. “Stringing up the lights for when it gets dark out. Then getting the torches set up, though they don’t get lit until after nightfall, and only on nights we’re open. Logistics, boring stuff.”
He tapped her clipboard. “It’s quite the endeavor, putting this all on. And you’ve been doing it for years!” He wheeled to look at Lucy. “She must do a bang-up job if you’ve been letting her do this for so long.”
Lucy nodded, her smile identical to the one Penelope had shied away from before. “No one does it like Penelope. She’s a real gift to the festival and we’re lucky to have her.”
Colin sat up a little taller, turning his head to shoot her a grin that was just so proud that Penelope feared she might actually turn into goo right then and there.
“Colin Bridgerton,” a soft, simpering voice interrupted, and Penelope spun to see Cressida standing just behind them, flanked on either side by Ashley Huntington and Marina Thompson.
Just last year, Marina had been a barmaid and had spent most of her off-time being friendly with Penelope. Then, the last day, Cressida had gotten her hooks in her and the rest was history. She and Penelope hadn’t exchanged more than ten words since, which had wounded her deeply at the end of last year’s festival.
Marina, it appeared, was doing just fine as one of the newest ladies of the court. She only had eyes for Colin now, which set Penelope’s teeth on edge, though she knew better than to let on that she felt any type of way about him.
“It’s nice to have some fresh meat,” Marina purred, extending a hand to Colin, who looked urgently for a napkin before taking Penelope’s and cleaning his hand. As they shook, she watched Colin’s eyes dance in a familiar way.
He had a target, now. Someone to practice his charms on, to make sure his flirting muscles didn’t atrophy while he spent the next month playing dress-up and swinging swords with a merry band of dorks in the middle of sheep-country. She’d have a front row seat to the show, as always.
Ever the bridesmaid, she complained internally. Penelope stabbed a cherry tomato on her plate and bit it in half, doing her level best not to sulk.
“All thanks to Pen,” Colin said, releasing Marina to grip Penelope’s shoulder and half-spin her so she was facing the entire panel of sour faces at once.
“You two know each other?” Marina asked in surprise.
Cressida rolled her eyes, answering before Colin or Penelope could get a word in edgewise. “Yes, she goes where Eloise goes. You know Eloise Bridgerton? Penelope’s probably been underfoot at Bridgerton House for a decade now—“
Colin frowned slightly. “She’s hardly been underfoot—Pen is practically family. We adore her. She’s the one who told me about all this—I had no idea this was a yearly event!”
The girls delighted in giving him a brief history of the festival, and though Penelope had already told him all about it on the ride up, Colin listened to it all, slowly but steadily working his way through both plates of food as the girls told him all about the various near-disasters over the years, the wardrobe malfunctions, the drunken idiots who had to be removed, the vendors who dressed up with elf-ears and sold tinctures and potions.
Penelope was hung up on Colin bragging that he (and his family) adored her. Her inner pessimist was quick to add, Adores you like a sister. He said you’re practically family, after all.
What did practically mean?
“We even have a tarot reader!” Cressida crowed triumphantly, batting her lashes. “She’ll give you a free reading, since you’re on the cast.”
Beneath the table, Colin nudged Penelope’s thigh with his thumb. She started slightly, almost looking down to gawk at the contact, but the way his jaw had tightened and his eyes had gotten sort of faraway, Penelope realized he was tagging her in for an assist.
An escape, to be exact.
She stood, completely unbothered at Marina’s and the other girls’ scowls. “Well, we best be off before we lose too much more daylight. The stadium isn’t going to string itself.”
Her exit prompted a mass exodus from the dining room attached to the kitchen, but Colin stuck close by, following her to the stadium, where a small crew was just starting to get the stands erected for the viewing public.
“Over there is where the king’s box will be. He has a queen, and then we have the court of ladies. One of them will get to be the princess this year, and they basically go around like they’re at Disney taking pictures with patrons and dropping their handkerchieves for spotty teenage boys to hand back to them.” Penelope dug into a box filled with carefully sorted and coiled string lights. “The stables will be over here, and that’s where I usually hide when the games are on.”
“You hide?” Colin asked, his voice soft, his social battery apparently quite low.
She shrugged, smiling at him. “I’m the behind the scenes girl. It’s what I prefer.”
“But you’ll be there, right? Every night?”
She stopped her fussing with the lights and looked at him, forcing herself not to bite her lip or shrug. “I’ll be there. And any help you might need, you can ask me. If I don’t have the answer, I can get one. You’ll do great, Colin.”
He scuffed his riding boot across the muddy ground, sticking his hands in his pockets. “Might be better to lower your expectations a bit, Pen.”
She snorted, returning to the lights she needed to unspool. “You’re already doing a cracking job, you dolt. If you weren’t a dear friend, I’d still have insisted Lucy hire you from your trial runs alone.” She paused, annoyed that the socket-end of the light string was wrapped twice around the coil. “A handsome man on a horse who can actually ride? It’s a no brainer. And Aphrodite seems smitten with you. It’s your expectations that need adjusting, not mine.”
She untangled the lights and unfurled them victoriously, looking up at Colin expecting him to be ready to take the opposite end of the strand only to find him pink-cheeked and examining the clouds overhead.
Her stomach sinking, Penelope thought back on what she’d been prattling on about while wrestling with the lights.
Fucking fuck, had she really said he was handsome?
Of course, there was no way Colin didn’t know he was a striking specimen of a man, but she imagined it hit quite differently when your little sister’s pudgy friend declared you handsome and good on a horse.
No part of her was willing to entertain the possibility he was pleased she had complimented him. That his pink cheeks were because she had told him he was pretty. It was too far a stretch—Colin was pretty. Colin knew he was pretty.
She had just started considering fashioning a noose from the length of string lights in her hands when Colin finally took the opposite end from her and located the nearest plug-in, feeding the lights through the little slotted hooks all along the poles.
His ears had turned pink, too, and he wouldn’t meet her eye.
Clearing her throat, Penelope nodded at the poles, desperate to change the subject. “These will all have banners on them. As the tournament goes on, we take down the eliminated knights’ colors until it’s just the final two. There’s these confetti cannons, and they, erm, shoot off paper confetti in the winning knight’s color at the end every night. You can also pick a song, if you like, and if they can find a string arrangement of it—“
“Now that will take some consideration,” Colin interjected, dusting his hands off. “When do we get to sleep? I’m knackered already.”
She smirked at him, relieved he was willing to let her pretend her earlier foot-in-mouth moment hadn’t actually happened. “After supper.”
His eyes brightened. “Tell me there are roasted turkey legs.”
Putting on a grim, apologetic face, Penelope clasped his hand between hers, squeezing it comfortingly. “I’m afraid not. But there are smoked turkey legs.”
Colin groaned, squeezing her fingers back. “I’m actually sort of cross you didn’t tell me about this whole festival ages ago.”
After a beat, Penelope decided they had become close enough friends that she could be honest with him. “I did, actually. Several times.”
Colin’s smile dampened slightly. “Did you?”
She hastened to soothe him, feeling she’d been too harsh even if she’d only calmly and softly reminded him of the truth. “I did. Not that I did a stellar job selling it—Eloise thinks it’s all unbearably nerdy, and you were always busy with your school mates.”
His eyes darted back and forth between hers, his eyebrows scrunching ever so slightly. “I should have been paying attention.”
The sentence felt like a loaded gun. Penelope was afraid to touch it, but she couldn’t ignore it—couldn’t pretend it wasn’t sitting between them like a live wire.
All she ever wanted was for him to pay attention to her. To the things that she said, the things she wore, the way she felt both painfully frightened and fully emboldened by his mere presence. She wanted him to have laden the words with double meaning but couldn’t dare to let herself hope he actually had.
She flashed her teeth at him, hoping it disguised the way she felt sliced to ribbons inside. “You know now. Have fun with it, yeah?”