After a few seconds, I open my eyes and bat my eyelashes at Brandy.

“Yeah, I’m good. I had a bit of a…” I clear my throat. “Pulled a muscle or something.”

Brandy takes a final step toward me and peers down, her eyebrows still drawn together in annoyance.

“Mal!” she gasps, clutching her invisible pearls while wearing a dress as short as a napkin.

I tumble away from my husband, watching as he flashes her a completely charming, casual smile and stands up. He is sporting a huge erection through his cargo pants, his lips are swollen and look as if he just ate a glazed doughnut, and his hair is messy and delicious and silky as flower petals.

Right now, he looks so delightful, I know there’s absolutely no way on Earth I will ever give him up.

“Hey, Britney.”

“Brandy.” She exposes her teeth, her cheeks red with fury.

“Right.” He puts his hands on his hips. “How can I help you?”

“Is this a fling or…?” She points her finger between us, narrowing her eyes at Mal.

He exhales sharply, blowing away a lock of his shiny, overgrown hair that has fallen across his bandana, and pretends to think about it.

“Well, I asked her to marry me this morning. Actually, that’s not entirely accurate. I asked her eight years ago, but she said no. This time she said yes. And so, for the past few hours we’ve been legally married, which makes me lean toward serious. What say you, Mrs. Doherty?” He turns to look at me, stroking his chin. “It’s not friendship bracelets, but it’s a step in the right direction, no?”

I offer him a noncommittal shrug. “Looks like I’m going to keep you for now. No offense, Brandy,” I mimic her condescending tone.

I’ve never seen anyone rush out of a room so fast. She looks horrified. I’m half-sad for her. But I’m completely happy for myself, because when Mal scoops me in his arms and lifts me in the air, and we’re both defying gravity and logic and the worlds we’ve built for the past decade.

I swear I don’t even notice when he puts me back down.

I’m floating on a thick, heavenly cloud.

But because I’m still in the dark, bathing in the unknown, a minute from forcing the truth out of him, I know the bubble is going to burst.

A NOTE FROM BRANDY

*Taps mic*

Is this thing on?

Oh. Hi. Brandy here. I guess I should explain myself.

Let me start by saying, the token trashy girl never knows she plays that role, you know?

No one would ever audition for the part, let alone willingly play along.

If you ask me, I had every right to go after the tortured poet. Every time I saw him with the weird silver-haired girl, they either looked like they were about to kill each other, or they actively tried to sabotage each other’s lives in one way or another. How was I to know there was more to them than just two professionals who weren’t getting along?

Oh, and don’t even try me with the whole sleeping-with-my-boss incident.

Yeah, yeah, I sleep with my single, available, generous, rock-star boss. The one with the huge dick and thirty-two million followers on Instagram. Who wouldn’t? He is effing Ashton Richards!

Besides, since when is it wrong to go after a single, hot man? And when the guy looks like Malachy Doherty, it is legit my duty to try to seduce him.

Also, let the record show that I’m not the worst, most dreadful person in the world.

Just ask my sister, Whitney, who works for Ryner.

She hooked me up with this job, and she knows better than to warn me off my gorgeous employer.

Because I might be sleeping with my boss (technically, I don’t, because I was hired by his manager), but she’s the one having a baby with an English banker who apparently has a girlfriend.

A fancy, hot, photographer girlfriend who has no freaking clue he’s been messing around for months behind her back.

The banker doesn’t even like Whit, but does she care? No. Because he’s going to pay her way through the next nineteen years.

Now that I think about it, Callum Brooks totally fits the bill.

I need to make a mental note to ask Whitney about this. Maybe when she isn’t so emotional and complaining about her sore breasts.

Oh, well. Back to the perfect-husband drawing board I go.

Present

Rory

Mal conceded to two more days in Greece, but hell if he wasn’t Bitter Betty about it. We’re making the best of it by staying in bed all day, catching up on more sex, more seafood, and more of the sun on our balcony.

We talk about the songs he wrote about me (“How could you not know?” “How was I supposed to? You told me you were never going to sell them. Besides, listening to a hit song and assuming it’s about me? How bigheaded do you think I am?” “Well, your head is a little disproportionally large, but I’ve heard all movie stars are like that, so I suppose you’re in good company.”), listen to music, and use every napkin we get with the room service to sign more contracts between us.

In the unlikely event that we have a fight…we promise not to walk out on each other.

In the unlikely event that we have three boys and no girls…we promise not to have everything in the house blue and watch footie all weekend.

In the unlikely event Mal moves to New York…I promise not to allow him to wear tweed jackets and become the cliché tortured artist.

All those things seem important, but they’re still hanging in the air like stars, unreachable and far away. We don’t talk about what counts. About his secrets. About the mysterious calls he takes every few hours in the hallway.

We don’t talk about the fact that I don’t want to move to Ireland, because my life is in America, and he doesn’t want to move to America, because his heart is in Tolka.

We don’t talk about Kathleen.

Or Father Doherty.

We don’t talk about my nightmare.

At some point, Mal slips to the hallway to take another phone call, and I pick up my phone to text Callum and ask him how he is.

After I’m done with the message, I slide into my unopened text messages to face the Summer music. It’s more like a scream, if I get the vibe right, and what I see makes me want to throw up.

Summer: Please answer.

Summer: I guess he told you.

Summer: I NEVER meant to sleep with him, Rory. You have to believe me.

Summer: And I knew he loved you so much. Please, please forgive me.

Summer: Omg, stop! You were going to break up with him, anyway. You told me so a million times. In my mind, you weren’t even, like, fully together. It was always Mal you wanted. Pick up.

My mouth is slack when Mal returns to the room, looking around.

“Shall we pack up?” he asks with his fists balled at his waist. I force myself to look up and ignore the way my heart shatters like windows.

Boom, boom, boom.

“Three more days.” I muster a weak smile, playing dumb again.

That’s what Ashton said. Three more days. And he actually sent for Mal to come work with him today for an hour, to justify our stay here. I joined Mal to take pictures, and we broke the news about our wedding to Ashton, who was elated. But then again, he was also very, very high. I’ve a suspicion he would have been just as excited if I told him I’d bought a new keychain of the Temple of Hephaestus at the local market.