“I’m just asking,” I say, “are you sure you want to bet your future on a myth?” Because, to be honest, something inside me wishes she’d get up and say, screw you, fate, I’m taking my future in my own hands.
“Would I bet my future?” she asks.
I nod and lean forward to hear her answer.
Slowly, she says, “I’d bet everything.”
Her words ring in my ears. She’s serious. She’ll do anything to get with this random guy she hasn’t seen in nearly twenty years. It’s like a cosmic joke, except I’m not laughing. I guess I shouldn’t have expected anything less.
“It’s a myth,” I say. “It’s not real.”
“It is,” she says. She points her finger at me and jabs me in the chest. “And I’m going to prove it to you.” Her hand rests over my heart. We both look down at her touching me. She yanks it back and wipes her hand on her napkin.
No man likes to see a woman wipe herself off after touching him. I scowl and then take her unspoken challenge. “More likely, by the end of this week, I’ll prove that soul mates don’t exist.”
“Good luck, you have hundreds of Aunt Erma’s successes against you.”
No worries, I stand by my belief that the whole town of Romeo is suffering from romantic delusions. Hey, the tourism dollars depend on it.
Also, I’d like to push a little bit of reality into this situation and throw out the idea that this guy might not be decent.
“He could be a rapist,” I say. That gets her attention. Her head snaps up and she glares at me.
“Or a Lothario,” she says. Take that, her eyes say. She bares her teeth at me in a semblance of a grin and I smile back. Game on.
The minstrel who had wandered close again hightails it to the other side of the restaurant.
“He could be a drug dealer,” I say.
“Or a pharmacist,” she says.
“He could be an alcoholic.”
“A vintner.”
“He’s unemployed,” I say.
“Independently wealthy.”
“He looks like a frog.”
“He’s a prince,” she says.
“He’s boring.”
“Strong and silent.”
I glare at her and she glares back, a smile curving on her lips.
“Bad in bed,” I say.
“A sex god.” She bites at her lower lip and I have the urge to take it in my mouth and show her a decade of pent-up wanting. I yank my thoughts from her lips and drop my ace in the hole.
“He could be an ax murderer,” I say. Take that and chew on it.
She laughs, throaty and low, and her eyes light up. The candlelight sparks off her glowing skin.
“Or,” she says, “he’s a lumberjack. Mmmm. Sexy ax. I’ll hold the handle. Rawr.” She claws her hand and scratches at the air.
I shake my head. “You got it.” I hold up my goblet of mead for a toast. “To Matt Smith. Chloe’s lumberjack soul mate.”
Available May 25th!
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