Total pages in book: 119
Estimated words: 112244 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 561(@200wpm)___ 449(@250wpm)___ 374(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 112244 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 561(@200wpm)___ 449(@250wpm)___ 374(@300wpm)
Kev came bustling over from a nearby art booth and dropped a lingering kiss on my lips before leaning against my side. The collar of his T-shirt—a limited-edition HOG design that depicted a troll prince and the Duchess of Moon Flowers in front of a homestead in a parody of American Gothic—was damp with sweat when I nuzzled into his neck, but he still smelled like Kev. Bracing coffee and wholesome vanilla and everything I liked best.
“Hey,” he chuckled hoarsely, pushing me away half-heartedly while also tilting his neck to give me better access. “Stop distracting me. You won’t believe what I just saw.”
I pulled away just slightly. “Was it those pizza sticks with the parmesan cheese? Because I was stunned too—who puts pizza on a stick?—yet they were surprisingly good. I ate two—”
Kev covered my mouth with his palm, and his eyes danced. “Better than pizza sticks. I just saw the metal sculpture of our logo that Mal made. It’s perfect. Come see!”
No lie, the words “our logo” hit me hard, the way it always did when Kevin talked about something that was ours. Our bed, our rabbit, our future. Our development company, which we’d officially incorporated three months ago. Our game, which we’d already started to develop by taking some of the aspects we loved best about Horn of Glory and making them exponentially more inclusive and equitable. Our life in the Thicket, with its weddings and funerals, near-weekly fundraisers and festivals, barbecues and potluck dinners.
The whole thing made a person sentimental. And really, really grateful.
Still, since I’d helped design the logo and had custom-ordered the sculpture, I’d seen it many times during the build and design stage. Mal’s art booth was all the way on the opposite side of the fairgrounds, at least a hundred feet away. And those pizza sticks, while delectable, sat heavy on a person’s stomach, especially when mixed with the better part of three beers.
I licked Kev’s palm, and he snatched it away with a laugh. “Can’t I just… appreciate it from afar?”
Kev tilted his head in a little gesture I’d come to recognize as trouble and ran his tongue over his teeth. “I believe I see what’s happening here.”
I scratched at my forehead. “Baby—”
“Someone—it’s you—has forgotten simple respect for rank.” Kev took the beer stein from my hand and sipped from it slowly.
I tilted my head back so that the sun made brightly colored fractals whirl and shift against the back of my eyelids and tried valiantly not to laugh. Had I known it was possible to be as happy as I was with Kevin Rogers in my life? I wasn’t sure I had. “Not this again, I beg you. I have respect. So much respect.”
Kev hummed sympathetically. “And yet…”
“I gifted you that Temper Turkey when you mentioned that Oprah needed a sister, remember? And now you can calm entire orc hordes in seconds. That was a gift of respect.” I also hadn’t said a word when he’d named his golden duck in the game after the ancient stuffed duck that sat on our bed, even if I’d privately laughed my ass off, but I knew better than to mention either of those facts.
“I suppose you did,” he admitted. “Though I’m deducting points because anyone could see that Matthew McConaughey the Temper Turkey was a male turkey, what with his epic plumage.”
“And let’s not forget last night.” I lowered my voice, though the other guys were all busy in their own conversations. “When we did the Cloud Maven Javelin Toss to decide who got to top, and I lost that one crucial throw at the end…”
“How was you losing a sign of respect?” Kev hesitated before gasping. “You didn’t.”
“Weeelllll…”
“You absolutely did not lose that game on purpose! I don’t care how many hours of practice you’ve put in, you’ve never managed to toss your Enchanted Javelin through the Ring of Evenlore, which means I won fair and square.” He scowled. “Didn’t I?”
I shrugged helplessly and lied my ass off. “What can I say, baby? I wanted you to, uh, toss your Enchanted Javelin at my…”
Kev slapped his hand over my mouth again. “Jasper. Theodosius. Huxley.”
“Nah mah acshal nam,” I muttered against his skin.
“Irrelevant. I am… I am outraged. I am incensed. I am…” He sucked in an enormous breath through his nose. “Champ! Riggs! Everyone! Who won in the Ascendant’s Class at this year’s Conqueror’s Tournament?”
“You did, HogDoc,” several amused voices sang in unison.
I shook my head, fighting laughter.
“Yes, I did. And would you say,” Kev continued, his eyes hot on mine, “that means that I… ascended to the highest level of HOG stardom?”
“Yes, HogDoc,” they said again, though Quinn almost ruined it by laughing.
Kev pursed his lips and tilted his head, so perfectly, deservedly smug that I wanted to throw him down on the picnic table and taste him like my own personal Lickin’ Horn. “One would think that Huxley would appreciate being my Ascendant’s Consort. One would think that he would appreciate being leveled up in the game and getting that fancy custom hoodie with his new title on the back. But noooo. He’s never worn the thing.”