Page 372 of Wicked Brutal

“‘Danny, carry me because I made another terrible footwear decision.’”

“I have never said that in my life.”

“No. You just stand there holding your shoes like a fucking Victorian orphan until I pick you up.”

I snort. Becca's eyes snap to me. I immediately look away. Not my fight.

“That has happened, like, twice,” she says.

Danny grins. “Three times last week.”

“Bullshit.”

“Tuesday, Friday, Saturday.”

“Saturday doesn't count.”

“Why?”

“I was drunk.”

“That makes it count more.”

“Fuck you, Rorke.”

“There she is.”

And there it is. That fucking grin. Becca sees it too.

She crosses the space between them, grabs the front of his shirt, and kisses him hard enough that the back of his head cracks against the chair.

“Jesus fucking—”

She kisses him again.

Danny's hand catches her around the waist automatically, and just like that, an argument about shoes becomes whatever the fuck Danny and Becca consider foreplay.

Nobody even looks over. That's how I know they're okay.

Not because Danny stopped being Danny. Not because Becca stopped meeting every ounce of his bullshit with twice as much of her own.

Because they're fighting about shoes. Because she's kissing him to shut him up. Because ten minutes from now he'll probably be carrying her upstairs while bitching the entire fucking way about the shoes she'll be dangling from one hand.

Normal, stupid bullshit.

After everything they've been through, I'll take it.

Bella snaps her fingers. “I have the perfect pair. Lower than what you’re looking at, but they don’t look low. Wider heel, straps that actually support your ankle.”

She’s already reaching for her phone when Iz makes a sound. Not quite a laugh. Not quite smart enough to leave alone.

Bella’s head lifts. “What?”

“I’m just wondering how you turned somebody else’s prom into a personal styling emergency.”

“And I’m wondering how you make being insufferable look so effortless.”

“Natural talent.”