“No,” I tell myself firmly. “Absolutely not. We are not fantasizing about the scary snake man who’s about to keep Gran’s bracelet forever.”
But my traitorous mind wanders anyway, remembering how his voice seemed to resonate through my whole body, how his cobra hood flared slightly when he was interested in something, how surprisingly gentle his hands were when he examined the bracelet, those scaled fingers moving with such delicate precision…
The spreadsheet blurs as tears of frustration prick at my eyes. This is ridiculous. I’m sitting here having inappropriate thoughts about a naga while simultaneously preparing to beg him for mercy.
Talk about mixed signals.
“You’re welcome to visit sooner,” he’d said that day, and my heart had actually skipped. Like some romance novel heroine, I’d gotten butterflies over a simple invitation to come back and look at his weird cursed stuff.
I bang my head softly against the desk. “Focus. Focus. Focus.”
“Okay, what did that desk ever do to you?”
I jerk upright at Maggie’s voice. She’s standing in my bedroom doorway, purple hair tied up in a messy bun. Her expression shifts from amused to concerned as she takes in what must be my absolutely pathetic state.
“Spill,” she demands, crossing her arms. “You’ve been weird all week, and now you’re doing your sad spreadsheet face while physically assaulting the furniture. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong,” I lie, but my voice cracks. “Just doing some budgeting.”
“Uh-huh.” Maggie plops onto my bed, making herself comfortable among my scattered pillows. “And I suppose those aren’t tear tracks on your keyboard? Come on, Bree. Talk to me.”
I spin my chair to face her, and something in her expression—that mix of concern and fierce loyalty that only comes from years of friendship—makes my carefully constructed walls crumble.
“I can’t get the bracelet back,” I whisper. The admission feels like failure coating my tongue. “I’m three hundred short, and the deadline is tomorrow, and I just…” I gesture helplessly at my laptop. “I tried everything, Mags. But it’s not enough.”
Maggie’s face softens. “Oh, sweetie.” She pats the bed beside her, and I practically collapse onto it, letting her wrap an arm around my shoulders. “What are you going to do?”
I twist the hem of my shirt between my fingers. “I thought maybe… I could ask for an extension? I have most of the money. If he’d just give me another week or two—”
“That could work!” Maggie sits up, suddenly energized. “You’re good at talking to people, Bree. When you’re not overthinking it, anyway. Just explain the situation, show him you’re good for it.”
“You think?” The knot in my stomach loosens just a little. Maggie’s optimism has always been infectious. “I mean, what’s the worst that could happen?”
“Exactly! And hey, if he says yes, maybe you could impress him by bringing up some facts you learned from that cobra documentary I caught you watching—”
I throw a pillow at her face. “Out. Get out of my room.”
Her laughter echoes down the hall as she goes, and I turn back to my spreadsheet with a slightly lighter heart. But as I stare at those red numbers, I can’t help wondering if maybe Maggie’s right about more than just the extension.
I mean, he did want me to come back so he could show me more of his collection, and if nagas are as protective of their treasures as all my covert research claims they are…
Then maybe he actually likes me for some reason?
I sigh, and just as quickly as Maggie’s optimism had rubbed off on me, it disappears.
There’s no way. I’m just going to go there, get my extension, then get out. This is about reclaiming Gran’s bracelet, not about reigniting my historically disastrous love life.
Better to remain single forever. Maybe get a few cats. Develop a wine addiction. Yeah. That’s the plan.
Morning comes too quickly,dragging me from fitful dreams where powerful scaled muscles kept wrapping around my body, tighter and tighter until…
I blink hard, shaking away the sensation that felt all too real in the middle of the night. Now I stand in front of my closet, overthinking every piece of clothing I own. Professional enough to be taken seriously, but not so formal it looks like I’m trying too hard. I settle on a blue sundress that makes me feel confident without looking like I’m headed to a business meeting.
Who am I kidding? I look like what I am—a broke millennial about to beg for mercy.
The walk to the pawn shop is torture, each step bringing me closer to what will probably be the most awkward conversation of my life. The Houston heat is already oppressive this early, making me second-guess the dress as sweat pricks at my neck.
I have to pause outside the shop for a full minute, practicing what I’m going to say. The speech I rehearsed all night sounds hollow now, each practiced word evaporating in the muggy air.
