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“That everyone with any taste in musicals loves.” Oliver traipses into the kitchen, brushing Gavin’s hands away from the cheese plate. “Don’t even think about hiding the brie from me, Hayes.”
Gavin grins, then kisses him on the cheek, hard and sweet. “I would never dream of it.”
The doorbell rings this time, which means it’s not family.
“I got it!” Ren jogs out into the open living space from down the hall, wearing a dark-gray suit with wide pinstripes, running his fingers through his hair.
His black hair.
I gape at him. “Oh my God, Ren. Tell me you didn’t dye it.”
My brother snorts, giving me a shake of his head as he stops in front of the mirror mounted on the wall in his foyer. He shifts his hair, and now I can see that it’s a wig, albeit a darn good one. “Frankie said if I even looked at hair dye, she’d tie my hands to the bed, which”—Ren grins—“ya know, not exactly the disincentive she was going for—”
“Ay!” We all throw our hands up over our ears.
“None of that!” I yell.
Ren laughs, then tugs open the door. What looks to be most of the Kings’ team strolls in. Tyler and Andy are dressed as Tweedledee and Tweedledum, Kris as the Mad Hatter. More pour in, hands filled with gifts and beverage contributions, even though I know Ren told them not to bother.
I wave hello, then turn back to kitchen prep, checking the heat on Viggo’s Swedish meatballs complete with gluten-free breadcrumbs, then gently stirring the gluten-free twisty pasta noodles that will go with it, which are a little finicky. We’ve learned from trial and error that cooking them extra al dente, before they’re drained and tossed with oil, keeps from sticking and turning to mush.
Frankie strolls out of the hallway, dark hair draping down her shoulders and back, in a killer black plunging V-neck dress that hugs her body.
I give her an eyebrow wiggle as she walks up to the island, reaches for a root-beer gummy from a brimming black onyx dish, and pops it in her mouth. “Frankie. Wowza.”
She shrugs, grinning. “Yeah. I look pretty hot. The dress makes my boobs look fantastic.”
I peer at her boobs. Not that I’ve paid particular attention to my sister-in-law’s breasts over the years, but I’ve known her for a long time, and I can’t help but notice they kind of look…bigger? It would be supremely out of character for her, since, like me, she has a lot of sensory issues with her clothing, but who knows, maybe she braved a push-up bra for the occasion.
“You look amazing,” I tell her. “Feel amazing?”
“Hell, no. I feel like dumpster garbage in August that waste management forgot to pick up. But I’ll be fine.”
“God, Frankie.” I shudder. My sister-in-law has a vivid way with language that is both a blessing and a curse. “What’s wrong?”
Her grin doesn’t fade. She just chews her root-beer gummy and turns toward Ren, watching him shut the door behind everyone, then herd them inside, into the main room. “Nothing.”
“Nothing?” I’m so confused.
But then it doesn’t matter what I’m thinking or what’s being said, because the door opens again. And this time it’s Sebastian.
Wearing head-to-toe black, a glittering onyx crown wedged in his hair that flashes silver as he turns his head and shuts the door.
My eyes widen. I drink in the details—the leather jacket and pants that fit his body as well as a second skin, the pewter stitching woven throughout that shimmers subtly as he moves, revealing a design as intricate as his tattoos. He rakes his hands through his hair below his crown, making those silver rings on his fingers sparkle.
And then his gaze finds mine. He smiles, slow and knowing. It’s sweet, but it’s also…sexy, that tiny tilt of his mouth, higher on one side than the other, the subtle arch of one dark eyebrow.
I watch him walking toward me, piecing it together, why he looks so familiar. Not just because he’s my friend. Not just because by now I think I might know his face as well as my own. But because he looks like…
I gasp, slapping a hand over my mouth.
Sebastian Gauthier is dressed as a character from my favorite romantasy—an epically magical, dark and twisty, super smutty Swedish fantasy romance. And not just any character—the villain. The irredeemable, horribly cold and brutal villain. At least, he seems that way, until his whole redeeming backstory and secret, altruistic strategy reveal him as the hero in book three. I gave him book one a week ago. He can’t have read all of them. They’re each nearly a thousand pages. There’s just no way.
“Hello, Ziggy dear.” Sebastian leans a hip against the kitchen counter, grinning wickedly. It’s not his old sardonic smirk, nothing cold or aloof. It’s playful and warm—no, not warm. It’s hot as hell.
I swallow roughly. “Hi, Sebastian.”
He tsks, wagging one silver ringed, inked finger. Oh God, I think I might implode from lust. I don’t know what I’ll do if he does one more sexy thing—
