Leather & Lark: The Ruinous Love Trilogy (The Ruinous Love Trilogy, 2)

My eyes are still closed as one thought plays on a loop in my head, a song on repeat: I have many regrets. And most of them are related to this fucking chair. Maybe one or two related to Lachlan. But mostly the chair.

It was shortly after midnight and I’d just torn myself away from cleaning to sit in this round wicker chair by the windows. This is where I can almost convince myself that I’m out in the open, the city lights spread before me like a blanket of stars, a view that feels endless. Lachlan had gone to see his boss after our argument and came back with the details memorized of what Leander wants from my family. It’s a pretty simple list. A minimum of four jobs per contract per year. A five-hundred-thousand-dollar retainer fee. Muffins homemade by Ethel herself.

“Are they really that good?” Lachlan had asked.

I gave him a suspicious glance as he loomed in my periphery. “You’ve never tried one?”

When he shook his head, a little sliver of disappointment wedged into my thoughts. If the situation were reversed, I’d have tried every flavor by now so I’d know my adversary better. Just like I’ve googled everything about his studio, Kane Atelier. I’ve seen every photo in Lachlan’s portfolio and read every testimonial for his business. I scoped out his social media posts too—they’re mostly about his different leather projects, with the occasional scuba diving photo dump. I mean, I only really care that he knows fuck-all about me because it’ll make it that much harder to convince my family that we’re truly in love. That’s one hundred percent the only reason.

“Well,” I’d said with a shrug, “I’d like to think so. But if you ever decide to try a Montague Muffin, go to the flagship store on Weybosset Street in Providence. It’s always better than the mass-produced stuff.”

Lachlan lingered as though he wanted to start another conversation, probably about the elevator, or Claire, or maybe my cache of trophies, all of which are absolutely the last thing I want to discuss with him. So I shifted my headphones over my ears and tried to concentrate on the sheet music in front of my folded knees. I strummed my guitar until Lachlan finally disappeared.

It must have been nearly five when I finally fell asleep in the round chair, and it was just after six when I awoke with the guitar still resting on my lap.

And now I’m trying to unfold my legs.

I can’t feel my feet. Or my ass. Or one of my hands, which spent the last hour trapped between my leg and the body of the guitar. I pull my headphones off and groan, a sound that dissolves into an exhausted whimper as I rub my eyes.

When I open them, a cup of coffee hovers in view, clutched by a tattooed hand.

“Didn’t want to wake you with the espresso machine,” Lachlan says as I give him a single eye, the other still unwilling to face reality. “This is the freeze-dried shite, but I thought it might help while you get your bearings.”

As I accept the cup, I study him. He seems serious today. There’s not a single teasing note in his voice. He looks down at me like I’m dying and he doesn’t know what to do. A deep crease has formed between his brows and even after I take a sip of the vile brown liquid that I refuse to call coffee, he still hovers, some kind of pent-up anxiety rolling from him in waves despite his attempts to cover it. He even whisks the guitar from my grip when I try to set it on the floor.

“You didn’t go to bed last night?” Lachlan asks, his eyes flicking across my face.

“No. Guess not.”

“You didn’t go the night before last either.”Material © NôvelDrama.Org.

“Your observation skills have finally improved since the first time we met.”

Lachlan sighs. “I already told you. I wasn’t wearing my glasses.”

I snap my fingers and give him a devious grin. “And I was wearing makeup. An infallible disguise,” I say as I place the mug on the side table and heave myself out of the chair.

Lachlan’s eye roll nearly rivals Sloane’s and warmth spreads in my chest. Irritating him is even more energizing than the disgusting sludge I take with me to the kitchen.

“Thank you for this attempt,” I say as I pour the coffee down the drain, “but it’s basically the devil in liquid form and now we have to exorcise the sink. In nomine Patri, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti.”

“You know Latin?”

I snort and rinse out the mug. “I know ‘Constantine, John Constantine.’” As expected, when I glance over my shoulder at him, Lachlan seems clueless. “You haven’t actually seen Constantine? I thought you were joking when you asked the other day, but honestly that does not surprise me one bit that you have no idea what I’m talking about. Batch oven for you.”

“I thought you were going to say you learned it at that boarding school where you met Sloane. Ashborne, right?”

“Yeah.” A brittle smile forces its way across my lips. I’m surprised he didn’t rib me back. “Ashborne.”

“You didn’t graduate there though,” Lachlan says as he sits and smooths a hand across the surface of my new coffee table. I give him a suspicious look as I start grinding a fresh batch of espresso beans. “Sloane told me a while back.”

“That’s right. We finished school at my aunt’s home with private tutors.”

“Why?”

I bark a laugh. “None of your business.”

“You don’t think that’s something I should know? We’re going to your parents’ place in what, six hours? And we barely know anything about each other. I’d kind of like to be convincing, yeah? I like the idea of not dying in the batch ovens.”

“Trust me when I tell you the subject of my Ashborne education will not be discussed at the dinner table.” The espresso machine hums and hisses as I make two drinkable Americanos. I take them back into the living room and sit across from Lachlan, absently remembering that I probably look like a reanimated corpse. I shrug it off and slide him a mug across the glittering resin. “You’re supposed to know stuff like my favorite movie. Constantine. Or if I get stage fright. I don’t, by the way. Or where I’d like to go on our honeymoon. If this was real, it would be Indonesia. I like orangutans.”

Lachlan lets out a little huff, a sound of surprise. “I want to go there too, for the diving.”

I nod and sip my coffee. Even with my eyes trained on my mug, I can feel him watching me like I’m something broken that he doesn’t know how to fix. It’s been a long time since anyone has looked at me like that, so long I’ve forgotten how it used to make me feel. Damaged. Irreparable. Weak. But for some reason, I don’t want to put in the effort to cover it over with a fresh veneer, a glossy surface. I guess that’s the irony of being married to someone I have absolutely no desire to make happy. For once, I don’t have to try so damn hard to project one thing while I feel another, and the realization of how exhausting that is settles into my thoughts. But with Lachlan, I can turn the hologram off and just exist.

… Well.

That’s a fucking terrifying epiphany.

I take a long sip of my coffee even though it’s still too hot, then leave the rest behind. “I’d better go walk Bentley before he starts getting all dramatic,” I say as I stand. But Lachlan catches my wrist as I pass, holding it just long enough to stop me before he lets go.

“I did that already while you were sleeping.”

“He let you put a leash on him?”

Lachlan shrugs like it’s no big deal. “I did bribe him with chicken.”

I look over at Bentley, who keeps his head down on his folded paws and watches our exchange with guilt-ridden eyes. “Traitor.”

“If it’s any consolation, he stayed as far from me as he could at the end of the leash.”

“That does make me feel marginally better.”

I’m still standing, my eyes glued to my dog, unsure of where I should look or what I should do next when Lachlan grazes my hand with one of his knuckles. “Hey,” he says. My attention shifts back to him, but I say nothing in reply. “Just … sit down.”

I raise a brow and bite my lip, trying not to smile. “Are you bossing me around in my own home?”

Lachlan blushes. “No … but … please?” he asks, fidgeting with his glasses. “I’ll make breakfast. We can talk a bit longer before we have to go.”

“Talk about what?” I ask, making no move to sit.

“I don’t know. How about we start with Indonesia?”

Our eyes lock once more and I let myself really look at Lachlan. Deep blue eyes, the color of a cold and treacherous sea. His dark hair swept into place. Tattoos that flow down his neck beneath the collar of his gray Henley, scrolling Irish script and an intricate triquetra on one side, a weeping angel on the other. I don’t know what they mean or the story they tell, but I do know a lot about pain and grief. Sometimes, you need to carve the things you’ve lost right into your skin so you remember what you left behind.

I sit back down across from Lachlan, and his shoulders drop with relief.

“I’d love to volunteer there, if I could find a good place to do so. I guess working with orangutans in the Borneo jungle for a few weeks probably isn’t everyone’s idea of a fun honeymoon though,” I say with a shrug. “Not really a romantic beach getaway.”

“I don’t like lazing around either. Love the water, not the beach. Gets boring after a day or two. Your idea sounds fun to me.”

I look up at Lachlan and the faint smile on his face might be the most genuine of his I’ve seen. And I know he’s still an asshole. I’m not going to forget that. It’s not like he’s ever apologized to me for being a dick or stuffing me in the trunk. Not going to let that one slide either. But he’s kind of okay to listen to when he gives me that smile, or when he gets up and makes breakfast and it’s actually really good—and bonus: not poisoned. There’s maybe a decent guy buried in there somewhere. Deep, deep, deep down. Not that I want to find out, but learning a little bit about him doesn’t hurt, I guess.

The question is, will it be enough to convince my family?

That, I don’t know. But before long, we’re on our way to find out.

We stop first at Shoreview Assisted Living to pick up my aunt, and despite Lachlan’s multiple offers to assist, I head into the facility on my own. I find Ethel in her room already waiting to go, hair coiffed, lipstick on, cane polished. When I escort her out the doors, Lachlan is standing outside his Charger in the bitter wind, waiting with the seat flipped forward so I can slide in the back before he helps my aunt into the passenger seat. Ethel’s cough is vicious with the transition from warm to cold to warm again, but she fights her way through the persistent rumble to ask Lachlan a million questions about the vehicle. They chatter for almost the entire hour-long drive to my parents’ home in Providence.

When we pull into the driveway and Lachlan cuts the engine, my aunt turns to me with a wicked grin. “Ready to stir some shit up, my girl?”

I shake my head. “No. No, I am not.”

“Too bad.” Ethel shifts her attention to Lachlan and whacks his arm with her purse. “What about you?”

“Yes, ma’am. Ready to stir shit up.”

“That’s the spirit.” Lachlan lets out a quiet chuckle before he gets out of the car to retrieve the gift he brought for my parents from the trunk. I asked him what it was, but he wouldn’t tell me.

“I like him, Meadowlark,” Ethel says.

“You should have married him then.”

“Too late now,” she declares as Lachlan opens her door. With a delighted cackle, she takes his waiting hand and steps out of the car.

I start to follow her, trying to steel my nerves for what’s ahead, when Lachlan’s hand reaches into the back seat. I take it, feeling an unexpected reassurance from sharing warmth with the only other person who could possibly feel what I’m feeling right now. When I’m out of the car and standing next to him, he doesn’t let go like I thought he would.

“You okay?” he asks.

I feel like I’m coating myself in layers of papier-mâché when I smile. “Yeah, of course.”

But Lachlan isn’t buying it. “You sure?”

“I’m nervous,” I blurt, and I don’t know why.

My internal reprimand is immediate. He shouldn’t see any weakness in me. Lachlan Kane does not like me. He’s only going through this whole insane escapade to save his ass.

I lock my spine and pull my shoulders back. “I’m nervous for you. If they suggest taking you for a tour of an industrial facility in Portsmouth, you should politely decline. And then run.”

Worry flares in Lachlan’s expression before he smothers it beneath a smirk. “All right, you feckin’ catastrophe. Let me show you how it’s done.”

I snort. “If they don’t throw you in the batch oven, I’ll do it myself.”

With a final glare at each other that doesn’t really sting, we follow my aunt to the front door, our hands still clasped together.