“I know. He didn’t even kick me out.”
She starts to laugh, really laugh. But I don’t mind.
“Evie, yousoshould’ve made your own Pulse Tok.”
“Sure, that’s exactly where my mind was at when I’d just escaped marrying a serial cheater.” The dogs in the kennels suddenly begin to bark. “Now look, your donkey braying has set the dogs off.”
“Sorry,” she says, pressing her hand to her mouth, completely uncontrite. But her laughter is infectious. “In your wedding dress? You must’ve looked like a total mental case.”
“I think the phrase you’re looking for isdamsel in distress.”
“Babes, you showed me the video. The aesthetic wasn’tdistress, it was moremurderous maniac.”
“Thanks,” I mutter with a slow shake of my head.
“Not that he didn’t deserve it. But this guy, he must be one of the good ones. Men these days are allergic to women in white dresses, you know.”
I bite my tongue.Goodisn’t a word I’d use to describe Oliver, unless we’re talking about his bedroom skills. Or his proficiency at making me want to strangle him.
“It’s not like I was out in the street looking for a stand-in groom.”
“Because you’ve been there, done that,andworn the lacy dress. You must’ve looked like a complete bunny boiler.”
“Remind me why we’re friends again?”
“We’re better than friends. We’re mates. We keep it real, but honestly, that whole story is just ridic.”
“That’s me,” I murmur, watching as Yara pats the pockets of her scrubs like she’s looking for something. “Ridiculous. Or at least my life is.”
“So, what’s he called?” she asks, turning to rummage in the bag behind her. “This Romeo rescuer of yours.”
“Romeo.” My shoulders move with a snort.
“No way!” She swings around, her eyes as wide as dinner plates. “You know they wind up dead at the end though, right?”
Hmm. One of us might.
“His name is Oliver.” Saying his name shouldn’t cause me that tiny bubble of pleasure. The man is no Romeo.
“Speak of the devil . . .”
My heart goesba-dumat the sudden sound of Oliver’s smooth, deep tone. I whip around to find his playful eyes on mine. But there’s an intensity there, too, a facet of him I’m coming to recognize. “What are you doing here? I know I mentioned your name, but I didn’t say it three times.”
“I think that’s Beetlejuice,” Yara offers with a slightly dazzled look.
“He’s got the suit. What shade is this?” I add in a whisper. “Could it be morally gray?” My lady parts are all aflutter as I reach out to rub the lapel of a (charcoal-colored) suit that hugs him in all the right places. It has the finest pinstripes and a matching vest. His shirt is a brilliant white, his tie dark. He even has a pocket square.
Oliver Deubel, youGQ-worthy thirst trap, you.
“I’ll have to take your word for it,” he replies, bending to press a kiss to my cheek.Oh, so we’re playing it this way, still.
“What are you doing here?”
“Checking on my bunny boiler, apparently.” He leans around me, offering his hand to Yara. “I’m Oliver. Thankfully, I don’t own any pets.”
“You’re harboring one,” I mutter as Bo suddenly appears, sticking his nose in Oliver’s crotch at the first opportunity available.
“Yes, he does seem to like me,” he says, deftly sliding him away.
