In the Unlikely Event

“…moved to Manhattan, from a five-thousand-square-foot house to a five-hundred-square-foot, one-bedroom apartment. Summer put up a bead curtain to divide our makeshift rooms. But let me tell you, it’s awkward when she brings guys back…”

I stop walking.

She stops, too, eventually. It takes her five steps to realize I’m not there with her. She turns around to face me, slanting her head, confused.

All this time.

All this anger.

For nothing.

I want to hug her.

I want to fall down on my knees and ask for her forgiveness.

To cry.

To tell her what happened.

To hide it from her, so she won’t know how awful it has been.

I want to kiss her. Dip my fingers in her long, currently snow white hair. Press my lips between her eyes and thighs and over her beautiful, flawless heart that always beats faster when it’s under my palm. I want to keep her warm. Forever.

“What?” Rory frowns, like a wee child that’s been scolded for nothing. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Like what?” I smile, happy she can’t see the glimmer in my eyes in the darkness.

“Like…I don’t know. Like I just saved your life or something. You look upset but happy.”

“I am both,” I admit. “And you did,” I whisper softly, knowing she can’t hear.

“Please don’t take this the wrong way, Mal, but you’re the most confusing, infuriating, hotheaded man I’ve ever me…”

I’m about to take a step toward her and kiss the living hell out of her—feck Shiny Boyfriend and his shiny family and the shiny engagement ring I found in the nightstand drawer in their room when I went back to retrieve The Boar Head’s napkin from the bin (oops).

She’ll never know he wanted to propose before I summoned her for work, never know he forgot the engagement ring there, because he has the same amount of brain cells as a Benadryl tube.

Rory is not going anywhere. She’s staying with me.

She stops talking, but it’s not to welcome my almost-kiss. She lifts her palm and cocks her head, listening. There’s a shriek from behind the barn.

“Don’t you fucking dare move away. Do you know who I am?”

A cow snorts loudly. Rory and I exchange frowns as we take off toward the back of the barn, the grass muddy and slippery beneath our feet.

We round the big barn and find Ashton Richards, the snog-blocker, looking rather blue and thoroughly crazy, still in his golden robe.

He throws his arms in the air. There’s a cow in front of him, but it’s backing off, obviously aware of the fact that between them, it is the more intelligent, responsible creature.

Ashton raises one leg in the air while stumbling after the cow, trying to get on top of it. Feck. He is trying to ride it.

“Come here. Do you know how many women would give up their families to have me ride them? Do you?” he asks, half-laughing, half-crying.

Actual tears, I notice, which makes the situation considerably more bizarre.

He looks…crushed. Devastated. On the brink of a breakdown.

Rory lifts her camera, adjusts the flash, and takes a string of photos silently. Badass, I think. Not just because she’s putting her job first, but because of the stoic look on her face. After she’s satisfied with what she’s captured, she hands me the camera silently and approaches him, yanking at the back of his robe.

“Ashton!”

He spins around and blinks at her, slapping his forehead. “Sex Slave! Damn, girl, your boyfriend has been sulky as fuck since you left. I hope you got it all fixed between you two.”

He pats his breast pocket, producing a soft pack of Lucky Strikes. Suddenly, he is smiling again. There’s something definitely up with this bloke.

Even though the idiot is not wrong, Rory chooses to ignore the information about me and clamps his back. I don’t like seeing her hand on him, but if we don’t get him in the house right now, he is going to spend the next week in the hospital, battling a wicked lung infection.

“Can I tell you something?” she asks.

He shrugs into her palm.

“You cannot ride cows, Ash.”

“That’s not a cow.” He points at the cow with his half-lit cigarette, waving it around, like it proves something. “That’s a horse, honey pie.”

I put my fist to my mouth to cover my smile. Rory nods patiently. She draws circles on his back with her palm, gently persuading him to walk toward me and out of the field.

“What makes you think it’s a horse?” she asks conversationally.

“It’s completely brown. Cows can only be black or white or both.”

“Hmm…” She sounds like she’s considering the merits of his argument. “What else?”

“I saw it running from the barn when I walked by. Cows don’t run. They’re fat and lazy.”

That’s not true. I’ve seen cows run plenty. Granted, it’s an odd sight, but it is possible. They run heavily, like elderly ladies trying to catch a departing bus.

“What were you doing here in the first place?”

She keeps him talking. They reach the gravel path I’m standing on. We proceed toward the cottage, knowing damn well that Ashton is high enough to make a U-turn at any point and go back to the cow, demanding his ride. We need to keep him engaged until we lock the door with him inside the house.

“I was looking for you.” He turns toward Rory, poking her arm with his cigarette.

Thankfully, it died because he couldn’t light it properly. My jaw twitches, and I slide between them, bracing his back and breaking their contact. It’s a relief to be protective of Rory. Trying to hate her was exhausting, and futile.

She had none of my bullshit, for one thing. And for another, I always felt shitty trying to make her sad.

“Why were you looking for me?” Rory blinks, puzzled.

“Because our host here was being a sulky-ass motherfucker. You know, I don’t think it’s just sex he wants from you, honey pie. The only time I saw him smile was when you were around.”

“Our host is married,” Rory says, the three of us walking up the road, back to the cottage. “To someone else. There was no need for you to look for me.”

“No, he’s not.” Ashton laughs, wildly and loudly and more annoyingly than legally allowed, I’m sure.

“You also thought a cow was a horse, Richards. Not sure you’re in a position to give your opinion about anything, least of all my martial status,” I mutter.

I’m not ready for her to find out. Not like this. I want to do this right, so we’ll have a chance.

We need to be alone. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere warm. Somewhere I can explain.

“It’s not an opinion.” He whistles, zigzagging on the road. I tighten my grip around his shoulder. “You ain’t married, dude. Ryner told me the story.”

How high is this dickhead?

“He has a wedding band,” Rory points out.

“That’s because he is marrieded,” Richards hiccups.

“Richards,” I start.

“Marrieded is not a word,” Rory interjects.

“’Course, it is. It’s married. But, like, in past tense.”

“Shut up,” I hiss, clawing his shoulder in a vise grip, but he is too high to notice.