Connor’s ability to s**t talk still amazes me because you’d think he cared if you didn’t know any better. When the chief constable, and who I’m presuming is his wife, appear up ahead, Connor quickly excuses himself and casually makes a beeline for them.
He gestures that a waiter is to follow him, which is my opportunity.
“Chief Constable Moore,” he says, snaring two glasses of champagne from the server’s tray, offering them to the chief constable and his wife. “And you must be Mrs. Moore.”
Both accept the glasses, but I can immediately see the chief constable doesn’t appreciate lickarses.
“Mrs. Moore is Donovan’s mother. I’m Lana,” his wife says, extending her hand, which Connor kisses the back of.
Reaching for my own glass, I throw it back in one gulp, needing to wash the disgust fro
