Because he wasn’t actually alive until yesterday—as preposterous as this entire situation is—which he confirms with a slow shake of his head.
“Not yet.” Rhys taps his temple. “But the knowledge of how to end a life is here. And the will to carry out the deed is here.” He taps his chest over his heart.
Jesus Christ.
And on that note…
It’s time to go.
Chapter Six
Great, now my sensible Sentra also smells like the remnants of last night’s storm and outdoors…andman.
Not to be rude, but my companion will get rather ripe soon if he doesn’t get friendly with soap and water. Currently, he’s taking up a lot of space over there in his seat, sitting disturbingly still while switching from staring out the windshield to gazing out the passenger’s window as if he’s seeing everything for the first time. Which, I guess, if he’s telling the truth, he is.
But that’s preposterous.
So, why does it feel true?
Because it is, Charlotte.
A naggingvoice in my mind is telling me to believe in the impossible. To take a ginormous mental leap, trust my gut, and believe magic…Cupid, whatever…is real.
Okay, sure. Let’s pretend this dude is actually Rhys Ravenstone, my antihero. Let’s also pretend that the little poem-thing that popped up on the app after we ‘matched’ is true. That would mean we have one week to fall in love. Five days—as if instalove is as common as a cold. But say, remarkably, somehow, we fall instantly in love.
What then?
Do Rhys and I ride off into the proverbial sunset and live happily ever after?
Sounds like an outstanding fairytale.
Keyword:fairytale.
Life, however, doesn’t work that way.
Hearts are fickle beasts, and the more likely outcome is that we don’t fall in love in seven days—or ever. He could snore like a buzz saw or despise how I chew. He might have a wonky toe I just can’t stand or halitosis. What if the gentleman prefers blondes? Or worse, God forbid, he’s a DCU person to my MCU gal. There are a million perfectly reasonable and hilariously petty reasons why people don’t mesh, and with a clock ticking…
I already know exactly how this will end.
I glance at my car companion and bite back a laugh at the way he’s suddenly gripping the ‘holy shit’ bar. Seriously? Pardon me for being familiar with the twisty back roads of Wayne County. No need for me to do fifteen miles an hour on Penelope Road when I can go…faster.Muchfaster. I’m half-tempted to toss him into the rushing current while driving along the gloriously scenicand frigid Delaware River. Especially when he cuts his eyes at me, giving me a glare for taking a bend too quick for his liking.
Being malicious, I give the wheel a deliberate jerk to swish him around his seat. I ask, “Do you have somewhere you’re staying? Somewhere I can drop you?”
Like in the fucking river?
“No.”
Goddamnit. “Let me guess, no money either.”
“No,” he growls, and again, like when he thanked me for breakfast, I know it wasn’t easy for him to admit that.
I want to lie and pretend Rhys Ravenstone isn’t my responsibility. Because if he’s telling the truth (and thisfeelsweirdly right), I brought him here. This man ismyantihero. He’s the book boyfriendIbuilt and who was sent by Cupid tome.
That does, in fact, make Rhys my responsibility.
Still…
I bang the heel of my left hand against the steering wheel. “Jesus Christ.” I steal a glance at him to find him staring right back at me. “This is crazy. You can’t be real.” If a brain had actual gears, mine would be spinning wildly, grinding metal against metal. “I’m an actual person with actual feelings, you know. I’m giving you one last chance to come clean. Admit that this is a sick game you’re playing. I’m asking you nicely, right now, to tell me the truth. I won’t be mad. Swear to God. I’ll even take you anywhere you want to go. Anywhere. No harm, no foul. Just please stop. This isn’t funny.”
