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“Mrs Kincaid for the endgame?” Florence teased as she nudged me playfully.
We were sitting on her bed that Monday night, scoffing biscuits and sharing a bottle of ‘Elle and Lui’ in our own celebration.
I laughed. “You areveryobsessed with me giving away my last name.”
“Mr Vanguard for the endgame, then?” she posited.
I nodded. “That’s better.”
There was a knock at our dorm door and we both looked up to see the future Mr Vanguard himself coming through it.
“Help yourself, why not?” Florence said to him.
He looked at her with the vaguest hint of a smile. “You do not want to test me, Miss Walton.”
She was trying very hard not to be impressed with him. I could see it. Much like her and Apollo, she and Valen had the whole ‘my horse is bigger than your horse’ fight going on, but this felt more borne out of shared humour than actual hate.
“You’re fucking my best friend. I get to test you all I want, Valk,” was her reply.
“I love your best friend, Miss Walton. Do your worst.”
“Her best frienddoeshave a name,” I reminded them pointedly.
Florence nodded like it was a good point, but she’d just thought of a better one. “And enough of this ‘Miss Walton’ bullshit. You call me Florence, Valk.”
“That’s not my place.” He looked to me meaningfully and I warmed. “Yet.”
Florence did show how impressed she was with him now. “All right, then. But the minute it is your place…”
He inclined his head. “You have my oath.”
“And you have my best friend.” She waved her arm from me to Valen as though giving him her permission to do with me what he would.
“And my axe,” I muttered as I looked between them.
Suddenly, having my best friend and my future husband – all going well – in the same room seemed dangerous for a very different reason than it had the last four years. I wasn’t so much worried that they’d come to blows, but rather that they’d get along far too well, without me needing to mediate.
Valen held a hand out to me. “Come, princess.”
I folded my hands over my chest. “Why?”
“Come.” This time it was far less a request and much more an order.
I tried to repress my smile. “Why?”
His eyebrow quirked. “What have I told you about pushing me, love?” he asked sternly.
I grinned. “That it makes you love me more,” I said playfully.
He rolled his eyes and looked very much like he wished he hadn’t told me that. But I saw the humour on his face. “Just trust me, will ye? Please.”
“One of these days, you’re going to say please and I’m not going to give in,” I told him, pretending that was at all true.
“And on that day, I’ll bow before you in front of the whole school if you want it, love. But, for tonight, you’ll do as ye’re told.”
When he put it like that, yes, I would. Call me weak. Call me a pushover. Call me the woman who knew what she liked. It made no difference to me.
I stood up. “Now what?”
