"We thank you, Lord, for money and honey. Amen."
Sloane concludes her irreverent grace swiftly and digs into her lobster risotto with gusto.
I should laugh. Or at least roll my eyes. But I can't. My mind is a thousand miles away, trapped in the liminal space between the glittering shop windows and the sexual gleam in Liam's eyes.
After Sloane arrived and Liam vanished, the bustling streets didn't feel so good to walk anymore. I had Marco call for the car and forced myself to endure the ride, my knuckles white on the leather seat, every turn of the wheel giving me a minor heart attack.
Shopping had been a temporary anesthetic. The mindless, luxurious rhythm of it—sliding silk over skin, spritzing clouds of perfume, the satisfying weight of bags accumulating in the trunk—had muffled the panic. We stopped at an arcade for a while, mani-pedis afterwards, followed by more shopping. For five hours, it was simple, mindless fun with with my bestie.
