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His words are casual but his gaze is all heavy and almost meaningful. “Taking a walk.”
“Or trespassing, more like.”
“Didn’t ask. Didn’t care.”
Of course, he didn’t.
Asshole.
“What did she look like?” I ask next.
“Dark hair. Blue eyes.”
The complete opposite of you, Echo.
What, no. I don’t care.
That’s not what this is about. That’s not why I’m asking.
Again, I’m not surewhyI’m asking but that’s definitely not why.
Definitely.
“And?” I prod.
“And what?”
“What else? What else did she look like?” Then, “Please don’t tell me you didn’t notice anything else about her, except for hersparklingdark hair andmagicalblue eyes.”
My irritation is amusing to him. As always. “Yeah, magical’s the word.”
“I —”
“And I noticed,” he murmurs.
“And what was it that you noticed, Reign?”
“Her skin, for one.”
“What about it?”
“Creamy,” he rasps, still staring into my eyes. “Pale as fuck. Like she was made of moondust.”
Moondust.
Now that’s some word.
It’s a word that my logophile heart latches on to. It’s a word that I know I’m going to file away in the back of my mind. To think about later.
So I can hate on it properly.
So I can hate on it so much that it makes me sick.
Still, I manage to ask, “And?”
“Her lips.”
“Lips.”
