Chace is mid-story, waving his hands like a madman. “I swear to God—she showed the bouncer a laminated wedding certificate. Said she was my wife. It was in Comic Sans!”
Mac nearly spits out her cola, laughing so hard she slaps my arm. “Comic Sans? Oh, come on! That’s the real crime here!”
“It said Mrs. Chace Lovemuffin,” Chace deadpans.
The entire booth explodes.
Sam claps a hand on Chace’s shoulder, voice low and mock serious. “It’s legally pending.”
Trey raises his beer, the heavy-ass parrot puppet still stuck to his shoulder like it’s latched on for life. “To Mrs. Lovemuffin! May she be blessed and bound by Comic Sans forever.”
Mac leans into me, eyes bright as she adds, “Long may she reign.”
I can’t stop the grin stretching across my face. It’s loud and chaotic and messy—but it’s ours. Mac’s beside me, safe and glowing, and for once the night feels weightless.
Until I see her.
Stillness in a storm of movement.
Just beyond the fire pits and stage lights, where the dark curls inward, a woman stands—motionless. A masquerade mask dangles from her fingers. Black hair falls like ink over her shoulders. Pale skin. Red lips. a cold vacant gaze.
Lola.
Her gaze pierces straight through me, as though she’s not looking at me—but through me. Through time. Through memory.
She smirks.
It’s not amused. It’s not kind. It’s not anything—just empty.
Then she turns her back and disappears into the crowd like smoke into the wind.
My pulse kicks.
“Babe,” I say softly, leaning in and brushing my lips against Mac’s, “I’ll be right back.”
She blinks, smile faltering. “Logan?”
But I don’t stop. I can’t. I don’t have time to explain what I haven’t even figured out yet.
Behind me, Trey hollers, lifting his beer. “I’ll have another Silver Bullet!”
I toss a lazy middle finger over my shoulder, smirking for show.
But inside, my gut tightens.
Because if she’s here—if Lola’s back—I have to find her.
And I have to know why.
Chapter 27
Kayla
Laughter rolls around me, warm and full and just the right side of reckless—but it doesn’t quite reach the part of me that’s scanning the crowd.
Trey’s swaying like a drunk pirate—which, to be fair, he is—his ridiculous parrot tilting dangerously on his shoulder as he jabs a finger between Sam and Chace like he’s about to deliver the speech of a lifetime.
“I’m telling you,” Trey slurs, squinting one eye at Sam, “this feathered freak is plotting my murder.”
