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254 pages, ebook
First published May 28, 2018
You know, when you're not annoying the hell out of me, you might be my favourite person."
"It doesn’t have to be complicated, Trix.”
It was the only thing he could say. It was also a total bloody lie. It was them. It was going to be completely fucking complicated.
We do not squee over anything to do with this man, ovaries. Rein in the hormones immediately.
Her face was completely bare today, and she had even more freckles than he remembered. They were pinpoint dots scattered across her skin, clustering in places like constellations, which seemed fitting since she had a tattoo of small black stars down the side of her neck. He was fairly sure that if he got a ballpoint pen and played join-the-dots with the freckles on her cheekbone, he’d end up with an outline of the Millennium Falcon.
“Bloody people.” She and Leo made the exact same remark at almost the same time, his tone less joking than hers. Synchronised misanthropy. What next.
“Aww.” Scott looked back and forth between them. “Look at you two, with your cute little matching sketchbooks and your burning hatred of mankind.”
If she could ever afford to buy a house, even Dolores Umbridge would look at her shelves and think “Ooh, maybe a few too many porcelain cats.”
“Apparently we’re one of the internet’s hot new couples to watch. Literally watch.”
“Unbelievable.”
“My mother saw it.”
“Oh, God.”
“She’s into it. She added a hashtag-Jinx to all her social media profiles. She likes the idea of pink-haired grandchildren.”
“She does realise I didn’t come out of the womb like this.”
“She thinks that the power of your personality is such that if you want naturally bubblegum-haired babies, you’ll get bubblegum-haired babies.”
Trix turned around and gave him a look that could have shrivelled at least three of his vital appendages to the respective size of peppermints and a jellybean, a tragedy for all concerned.
However light they tried to keep things, the atmosphere between them was like one of those plasma globes; as soon as they got near one another, lines of electricity stretched from her skin to his.
Trix tapped her finger against something on the page. “I’m not going to murder him at your wedding.” She considered. “Well, the odds have lowered.”
“Have they?” Lily asked meaningfully. “Could it be that you’ve come to a mature truce and decided to set your differences aside for the duration of the show?”
“Yes. Exactly.”
“Or could it be that the rough shag in your flat no longer refers solely to that hideous ’70s carpet in the loo?”
If Lily was a Michelangelo sculpture today, serene and fluid and slightly otherworldly, Trix was a Tamara de Lempicka painting, bright, gorgeous, and edgy, with shadows in her eyes.
His probably justified irritation acted on her simmering temper like a cat having its fur stroked in the wrong direction. Spikes, prickles, and instant claws.
“You’re it for me, Tinker Bell. I think my heart probably went ‘Yes. Her. This.’ when I was sixteen years old and an immature prick, and nowhere near ready for you, and it took the rest of me over ten years to shut up and listen.