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Not right now.

And that’s absolutely not very fake, is it?

“This house is insane,” I throw out in an attempt to cool myself down with a subject change.

“More like ridiculous.”

“No wonder your parents don’t live in town. There’s nothing like this there.”

Bryce jerks her chin and slows her steps, walking in pace with me. The change of speed helps me focus on what I should be paying attention to.Not her ass.

She calls the house ridiculous, but at least it’s beautiful. A little too similar to a castle for my taste, with the rounded entrance and sharp roof peaks, but still breathtaking. It’s grand and white and bright, appearing far more welcoming than it is. A smokescreen like the witch’s house fromHansel and Gretel.

I can’t imagine a woman like Bryce in this place. Not happily.

“It paints the perfect family picture my mother loves to project.”

“That it does. I mean, there’s a literal”—I squint past the giant stone with matte-black letters that spell out the Lemieux name—“gazebo over there.”

Bryce releases a harsh breath. “Yeah.”

She slows her steps the closer we get to the house. The driveway is round and dramatic, made of tiny little pebbles that have been squashed down to be completely flat, but the toe of her boot catches on one, sending her stumbling.

“Woah,” I say, shooting my hand out to grab her elbow before she can fall forward.

Her skin is hot beneath my grip, even as the colour leaches from her already pale cheeks. Concern slashes through me, and Itake her hand in mine, stroking the back of her knuckles until she meets my waiting gaze.

“It’ll be fine, Frosty. I’ve got you,” I promise.

Palm slick with her nerves, she swallows harshly and squeezes me back. “I trust you.”

“Then, let’s go meet with the Devil.”

23

BRYCE

“T’es enfin arrivée.”

“No pleasantries today, Mom?” I ask, ignoring her dig about our intentional tardiness.

I learned my punctuality from her, which is how I knew that showing up today fifteen minutes late would piss her off. My bad.

Dressed in a simple white sundress with her ears and neck weighed down with pearls, Claudine Lemieux welcomes us into my childhood home with a hidden grimace.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Lemieux. You have a beautiful home,” Daisy says brightly, not waiting for me to give a forced introduction before stepping in.

I walk into the house with stone legs, but she floats in, a soft, natural smile on her face as she stares at my mother. It’s hard to tell if this is an act or if, like usual, this is just Daisy being herself.

“Daisy, I presume?” Mom asks absently.

“Yep. Daisy Mitchell. Again, I just want to say how nice it is to meet the woman who raised the one I’ve fallen head over heels in love with.”

I don’t breathe.

Can’t.

The statement pounds in my mind, already on its own memory reel and tucked in an easy-to-reach shelf for later.