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Inside the tissue, I found a delicate pendant of silver. A spoon, less than an inch in length, with a series of intricate designs crafted along its handle.

“It’s a… a kind of promise. A gift given to someone you love. They’re usually carved from wood, but I didn’t think you’d have much need for that, so…” She flicked a finger toward the charm. “I asked the silversmith to make it with two hearts, because—”

“Because two hearts mean the love is reciprocated.” I looked up from examining the flawless cast, taken by the design’s beautiful complexity. “I know what a lovespoon is, Dillon.”

Her smile was half surprise, half relief.

“And why would a girl from Hollywood know about an old Welsh tradition?”

“Because she fell in love with a girl from Wales.” I rubbed the smooth silver between my thumb and forefinger before catching her eye and smiling. “Well, that, and they have an exhibit of them in the lounge at the Cardiff airport.” Sweeping my hair over a bare shoulder, I unclasped the chain and held it out to her. “Will you?”

“Don’t feel like you have to wear it.” She hesitated. “It was just something I wanted you to have—to know.”

“For someone remarkably intelligent, you really are an idiot.” I tipped my head forward, exposing the nape of my neck. “I’m never taking it off.”

She smiled—the slow, perfect, beautiful smile I loved—the one I could feel without even looking at her—and slipped the fragile chain into place. “Are you going to write it into your next nudity clause?” She fastened the clasp, pausing to kiss the top of my shoulder. “All clothing negotiable except for my tiny comfort spoon?”

“I think I’ll phrase it exactly like that,” I sassed, twisting to make a grab for her wrists, but finding her superior strength turned the tables against me. Her counterattack immediately left me flat on my back.

It wasn’t a defeat I minded.

“And your premieres?” She held herself aloft above me.

“I’m wearing it.”

“Golden Globes?” Her lips moved to the hollow of my throat.

“Still wearing it.”

“BAFTA?”

“Wearing it.” The words came out through clenched teeth as her mouth made a slow procession to my hip bone.

“What about the Met Gala?” She spoke into the ticklish crease of my thigh.

I laughed. “They’re never going to invite me to the Met Gala.”

“Fair enough. That would require a sense of fashion.”

“Hey!” I pressed my palms against the wall of stone, trying to keep myself from squirming. “Be nice!”

“I think I’m nice.” She eased my legs apart, sliding her hands down the slope of my calves to my ankles. Unlike earlier, with the frantic rush, the impatient desire leaving no room for lingering, she was now torturously slow, going to great efforts to tease me. “You think any of Alina’s husbands were this nice?”

I didn’t answer.

“I bet not.” She dipped her head, trailing her lips against me, before abruptly sitting up again. “Not that I can blame them. She probably spent more time kneeling at the altar, exalting thevirtues of agape, than she did practicing eros on her knees in the bedroom. Not verynice, if you ask me.”

“Dillon!” I covered my face with my hands to prevent me from going with my first inclination—which was to strangle her. “Fine! You win! You’renice!”

“How nice?”

“Verynice.” Her lips brushed me again, and this time, when I raised my hips to meet her, she didn’t pull away. “Exceedinglynice.” Whatever it took to get her back on track. “Tremendouslynice.” To stop her from waxing philosophical with her head between my legs.

She smiled. “See—that wasn’t hard.”

I bit back a cutting retort—willing to forfeit this battle to win the war—but my treaty was interrupted by the grating sound of metal striking metal, and the shriek of an angry hinge.

Flying upright, I clipped Dillon’s head with my chin, and then paused, trying to hear over the drubbing of my heart.