Alastair Lockwood raised an eyebrow, his voice laced with a subtle sarcasm. "What? Are you one of her pursuers, too? Even so, there's such a thing as first come, first served, right?"
Jericho Hawthorne's expression darkened.
"I'm not her pursuer."
"I'm her husband!"
Alastair Lockwood frowned, his jet-black eyes narrowing.
"Is that so? But from what I've heard, she's been a widow for many years. And I've never heard any news about her husband coming back from the dead…"
Jericho Hawthorne couldn't take it anymore.
He was already rolling up his sleeves, ready for a fight.
Seraphina Quinn had drunk too much. Her stomach was churning violently, and she felt the urge to vomit.
Seeing she was about to be sick, Alastair Lockwood quickly set her down. He then watched as she rushed over to a flowerbed and started throwing up.
Alastair Lockwood took a moment to go back to his car and grab a thermos.
