Page 159 of The Kingpin's Call Girl

“About three hours ago,” Orton adds, strolling toward us, looking more pleased than I’ve ever seen him. “On the beach.”

More champagne is poured. More toasts are made right there at the water’s edge. I’m so happy for her. Of course, I tease her a little for always having to do everything first. First sister to do a cartwheel. First to graduate high school. Now first to get married.

“Maybe it’s time to step up, mister!” Mary says to Luka, waggling her brows.

“Buzz off,” I laugh.

Luka drapes an arm over my shoulder. “We’ve got our own timeline.”

“Own timeline, huh?” Mary says.

“That’s right,” I say. “Some of us don’t follow fireflies into the woods without a flashlight.”

“Okay, okay,” Mary says.

“Some of us don’t get matching tattoos with people we just met at sunrise yoga and declare ourselves best friends for life.”

Mary laughs. “In my defense, Iamstill friends with her.”

“And some of us don’t jump off the garage roof with a pillowcase for a parachute.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Orton raises his hands in mock surrender. “Am I the pillowcase in this scenario?”

Mary plants a kiss on his cheek. “You’re no pillowcase, baby.”

In truth, Luka and I have talked about the future together. A lot. But we both want to focus on the big things we’re building—things most people can’t see yet.

And yeah, we’re a little less impulsive than Mary and Orton. Not that it’s a bad thing. It’s just us.

Eventually, we wander back up toward the porch as the conversation shifts to wedding plans and potential dates, and Lazarus and all his fuckery gets pushed aside—for now.

Later, as Mary and Orton head back down the beach toward their own cottage, Luka wraps his arms around me from behind, resting his chin on my shoulder as we watch them go.

“She’s happy,” I say softly. “Really happy.”

“So am I,” he says.

I lean back against him, solid and warm. I don’t even need to answer. We get each other.

We watch the waves shimmer under starlight, the future stretching out before us unbounded. My barbaric king and me, writing our own improbable story one day at a time.

“Play me one more song,” Luka whispers.

“Another?”

“Do it,” he growls, lips brushing my skin, “or I’ll make you scream a different kind of tune.”

I smirk. “With an offer like that, I might never play again.”

He leans closer, his voice dark and dangerous. “Careful, little historian. You’re tempting fate.”

I lift the harmonica and begin to play.