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I slipped the fabric over my arms and took another step toward her. “Yes, you do.”
Then another, fastening a button with each stride.
“And who would that be?”
“Me.”
Silence clawed the air.
Then, I heard it.
Tinkling laughter bubbled from her throat like wedding bells carried by the wind.
It trickled straight into my stomach and burst in every direction from there. Only, it didn’t feel like butterflies.
It felt like bats from hell.
“What was that?” I demanded.
Her smile vanished—and so did the strange murmur inside my chest when she’d made that sound. It was not unpleasant. And did not feel like cardiac arrest.
I might have wanted it back.
She blinked. “What was what?”
“That sound.”
Her brows shot up to the edge of her hairline. “I… laughed?”
I noticed that her brows were a shade darker than her icy blonde locks. That they made her beauty wilder. More dramatic.
Her eyes, too, weren’t the traditional blue. They were pastel—the palest shade on the palette—rimmed by a navy circle.
It occurred to me that I could look at her face for hours on end without getting bored. Which was a preposterous thing, really.
Women usually bored me. Their faces, like their bodies, were interchangeable and entirely unexciting.
“Laugh again,” I ordered.
Her delicate brows crashed together. “Make me, then.”
“Impossible. I have no sense of humor.”
“Develop one.”
“It’s not a fucking film roll, Farrow. It’s going to take more than a couple hours.”
“Why do you need me to laugh, anyway?”
Because I felt something inside my chest, and I am desperate to feel it again.
It marked the first time since Dad had passed. And possibly the last.
But I wanted to try.
“Just do it.”
“Can’t fake it.” She shrugged, leaning back. “Though I bet you’re used to women faking things for you.”
