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“He’s full of his own importance,” I dismissed then checked my watch. “We’re going to be late if we don’t get going now.”
Though he nodded, when I stepped away, he grabbed my hand and tugged me into him. When I barreled into his chest, he stared into my eyes. “No secrets between us, Star.”
“No secrets. But I’m not going to detail who I’ve fucked and when, Conor, just like I don’t expect you to share that information with me. Especially as both of us have admitted that we always fucked and ran in the past.”
He grunted.
I took that to mean he agreed but didn’t want to verbalize it.
I smirked at him as I hovered my mouth above his. “I love you, Conor.”
He grunted again. “Love you too, Star.”
More amused than ever by his begrudging tone, I dragged him into the foyer and the concierge drifted alongside to guide us toward the door where a car was waiting.
Upon seeing us, the driver moved to the back seat and opened the door so we could slip inside.
The ride to the cemetery was short but not exactly sweet thanks to the usual traffic that riddled the streets. I pressed my hand to the window, watching my body heat steam up around my digits as we drove through Kensington toward the outskirts of Central London.
It was a good thing we’d elected to avoid the church service and intended only to watch the coffin be interred because we were later than anticipated when the driver, apologizing all the way, pulled up outside the cemetery.
By the time we were walking down the gravel path toward Ovianar’s plot, it had started to rain.
“Fucking England,” I muttered. “Always raining.”
Conor tipped his head back. “Nothing wrong with rain.”
“They’ve said we can’t drink the rain now. It’s too acidic.”
“Since when do you drink rainwater?”
“Hey, don’t judge. Sometimes rain is the only water source for miles around.”
He hauled his arm over my shoulders and dragged me into his side. “If we ever get stuck in the wilderness, you’ll totally save our asses, won’t you?”
“Yeah. I’m good in dire situations,” was my dry retort, but my words faltered when I saw the people gathered around the grave.
He squeezed me, murmuring, “It’ll be over soon.”
“I know. I’m just—”
“What the hell are you doing here?!”
“Jesus,” I muttered under my breath at Minerva’s shriek.
“Has she got eyes in the back of her head?” Conor queried in surprise.
“Sixth sense, more like,” I groused, shrugging off his arm so I could catch his hand as we made our way toward the plot. “I’ve come to pay my last respects,” I called out, well aware that I hadn't just knotted our fingers together—mine were practically superglued via sweat to his.
“Last respects? You’re the reason she’s dead,” Minerva spat. “She wouldn’t want you here and I sure as hell don’t!”
With a glance around the crowd, who were gawking at us, I happened to see Tryn Bowen standing at Minnie’s side, his hand firmly fixed on the shoulder of a young boy, his cousins like his personal bookends hovering around him.
Wondering if he had a magic wand that let him attend the funeral on time, unlike us, I narrowed my eyes at the humor in his expression before pinning her in my focus.
“I made a mistake,” I said calmly. “I’m sorry, Minnie.”
“Don’t you dare call me that.”
