Page 150 of Dream House
Okay, that one I’m good at. Phew!
“‘Love always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.’”
Protecting and persevering I can do in my sleep.
Trusting and hoping? Not so much.
Lark goes quiet. I fall out of my self-absorbed thoughts into the look in his eyes. It’s a bottomless look like he’s seeing fathoms deep inside of me. Does he see how short I fall?
“I-Is that the end?” I stammer.
Lark swallows again and shakes his head.
“‘Love never fails.’”
Then he blinks twice as though awakening. “It goes on after that, of course. But that’s usually the part you hear at weddings.”
I nod dumbly, unable to help myself when I measure St. Paul’s words against the man holding me.
Love is patient.I picture Lark bouncing Baby Lola on his shoulder.
Love is kind.He let me take a bath while he made Salisbury steak for my family.
It does not envy. It does not boast. It is not proud.Nope, I can’t say I’ve seen any of this from him.
It does not dishonor others.No, never. Lark would never.
It is not self-seeking.Three to one. That’s the ratio of orgasms between us. He’s given me three. I’ve given him one.
It is not easily angered. It keeps no record of wrongdoing.Lark has not once brought up Maisy’s little crime spree in his room. Even my best friend cast a few spells on Maisy for her trespassing and petty theft. But Lark was willing to let her keep his pricey rainbow stone.
Love does not rejoice in evil but delights in the truth. Love always protects.From the moment Lark knew Nina was in danger, he offered her protection. He’s faced down the evil in her life and has given her the help she needed to get clear of her ex.
Love always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.
Does he?
If I can’t trust and I can’t hope, can he?
Because if he can, maybe he could teach me. He’s quite good at everything else.
“You’re not a bastard,” I say for the third time, meaning it wholeheartedly.
“You keep saying that.” He narrows his eyes in a way that is supposed to look playful, but there’s something else behind them I can’t identify. Something that makes me worry he doesn’t believe me.
“Because you haven’t acknowledged it,” I press.
He arches a brow. “I can’t count the number of times my mom has said I was born to torment her.”
I wince but quickly recover. “I’m sure she’s teasing.”
Lark shrugs. “That’s where the joke comes from. Paul didn’t convert until he was a man in his thirties, and he did plenty of tormenting before then.” He’s grinning, but the smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Every time Mom says that, I tell her she should have named me after St. Maria Goretti.”
My brows climb. “Who’s that?”
“An eleven-year-old virgin martyr and one of the youngest saints to be canonized.”
I wince. “She was martyred at eleven years old?”
