“Yes,” she said crossly, annoyed
at her muddle and blaming him for it.
His mouth curled up at the corners
and his eyes smiled, and he said, “That’s the whaole point, love.”
Love? He’d never called her that before.
“What? To confuse me with all your masculine wiles?”
He opened his hands in a
what-you-see-is-what-you-get gesture.
“Moi?” He pronounced it
‘moy’. “Plain old moi?”
“Yeah, well, you know you’re
sexy. Don’t play the ingénu with me!”
He sobered. “I’ve been thinkin’ of you ever since the
last toime. ’Cos I want ya to have … a
good toime …” Esmé made an inarticulate
protest. “…yeah, a good toime, because
ya deserve it. Just because your dad was a vile loathsome bully and pervert
doesn’t mean …”
“He used to say gays were perverts
and abominations,” Esmé observed quietly.
Keith stared at her. “After what he did to you? What a prick! What a cunt! He is the abomination! A loathsome worthless piece of dogshit!”
She was glad of his fury. It proved—and despite all the evidence which he’d
already given her that he loved her—it proved that he did.
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