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I’m not a quitter.
In fact, quitting and I don’t share the same universe. So even though I haven’t smoked in twenty years, since a tiny infant with rainbow eyes showed up at my door, smoking still feels like a part of me.
A large body falls on the chair opposite me, looking as silly as a clown with a vanilla orchid in his breast pocket that Gwen most definitely stuck there.
Nate is a tall man and an inch taller than me, as he likes to remind me, but he’s leaner. What he lacks in muscle, he makes up for in brains and boring diplomacy.
This motherfucker has never lost a case in his life, holds the unbreakable record of a one hundred percent success rate, and apparently, also holds my daughter’s heart when he had no business to.
He watches me with that blank stare of his that could compete with that of an eighty-year-old monk. Nate smells of spice, woods, and Gwen’s fucking vanilla perfume.
And no, I don’t like sniffing people for fun, but I’ve had an overly sensitive nose since I was thirteen and was hit by a rotten stench.
It’s how I would know if this bastard needs a new one ripped the moment he starts smelling of anything that’s not Gwen.
“Bad mood?”
“Bad timing. Don’t speak to me unless you want to suffer enough body harm to cancel your honeymoon.”
Nate doesn’t even react to my crass tone, remaining as unmovable as a rock. “Charming as usual, King. Better tone down the psychosis a notch or else Gwyneth will suspect something is wrong. You can be crazy anytime you like, except on her big day.”
“I am toning it down, considering the fact that you’re still breathing…for now.”
“I thought you’d already accepted me as a son-in-law.”
Because my angel was getting depressed and proved with actions more than words that she can’t live without this fucking bastard.
And fine, I know he loves her, too, which would’ve been blasphemy in his life plans not so long ago.
Still doesn’t change the fact that he’s a thief who’s snatching my little miracle.
For good.
I vehemently refuse to admit that there’s any form of codependency between me and Gwen or that losing her is similar to backpedaling into the brooding, lost version of myself that I was before she came into my life.
“You’re in a trial period, so you should start counting your days and revising your will—which better have everything in your name left to Gwen.”
“Ever thought she doesn’t want me for my money? Maybe it’s something else she’s after—”
“Don’t even finish that fucking sentence.”
“I meant my affection and company, asshole. As if I would ever discuss with you or anyone else what my wife and I do. Get your mind out of the gutter.”
“It wouldn’t have been there in the first place if you hadn’t put us all in this motherfucking situation. Just why did it have to be her?”
“If I answer that, will you tell me why it had to be Aspen?”
I flip my Zippo open, then shut it and press my thumb against the metal. “Why did she have to be what?”
“The woman who gave birth to your only offspring.”
“That was a drunken mistake I made when I was clueless, debauched, and lacked common sense. As thankful as I am for Gwen, I wouldn’t remember that night if it smacked me in the face.”
“Allow me to call bullshit on your and her nonsense.” A smug smirk covers his awfully symmetrical face that he could’ve used to become president if he’d chosen his family’s political route. “I might have allowed you and Aspen to claim amnesia in front of Gwyneth, but I know for a fact that no amount of alcohol would cause you to forget everything. Besides, if there was fucking involved, neither of you was that hammered.”
“Didn’t know you were an expert on the resident witch’s sexual flavors and drunk attitude. You fucked her, didn’t you?”
“And that’s any of your concern because…”
