“Say it again, and I’ll do whatever you want.”
I glare up at him, but my traitorous pulse is doing far too much gymnastics for it to ever be safe. “Fine. Your future wife commands you to?—”
He dips me suddenly, dramatically, his face inches from mine. “Commands? I prefer begging.”
“I don’t beg.”
“Yet.” He pulls me back up, spinning me once more before stepping back with that infuriating smirk, still swaying to the ghostlybeat, his fingers tracing patterns on my spine that definitely weren’t taught in any dance class. “And what’s in it for me?”
“In it for you?” My voice comes out breathier than intended. “This isn’t a negotiation, Marshall. I need you to contact my mother.”
“Everything’s a negotiation.” He spins me out, then pulls me back harder than necessary, my body colliding with his. “Especially between us.”
“There is nous.”
“Not yet.” His hand slides to the small of my back, holding me against him. “But there will be. You calling me your future husband proves that.”
“I said future wife. Your future wife.” My lips invert because I hate it when my own mouth paints me in a celestial corner. Or in this case, a matrimonial corner. “Future wife is different.” I double down on the verbal debacle.
“Is it?” He dips me low, his face hovering above mine, close enough that I can feel his breath on my lips. “Because from where I’m standing, you’re already mine. You just haven’t admitted it yet.”
“You’re delusional.”
“I’m patient.” He pulls me up slowly, deliberately, making me feel every inch of contact. “And very, very persuasive.”
“Just get my mother.”
“Say please.” His voice drops to something dangerous. “Better yet, say, ‘Please, Marshall, my devastatingly handsome future husband.’”
“I will literally set your pants on fire.”
“Promises, promises.” He grins, spinning me one last time before releasing me completely, leaving me oddly cold without his touch. “I’ll fetch your mother. But Ms. Messenger?” He takes off and pauses at the massive front door, looking back with eyes that promise trouble. “Every favor has a price. And I always collect.”
The door clicks shut behind him, and I’m left standing alone, my heart racing for all the wrong reasons.
“Whatever,” I mutter, showing myself out.
The walk to the Oliver house feels longer in the dark, with fog creeping between the trees and the sound of waves crashing against the cliffs somewhere in the distance. From halfway down the street, I can see the familiar two-story house lit up like a peach with warm light spilling from every orifice. Through the kitchen window, I can see Emma and Dr. Oliver moving around, probably getting ready for dinner.
There’s no sign of Gage, even though his truck is in the driveway—not that he’d want to talk to me after our conversation at the bowling alley. And as much as I love Dr. Oliver like a second father, I’m not in the mood to deal with Emma and her particular brand of witchy passive-aggression tonight.
I’m about to head over to Ellis’ house instead when an all too familiar white truck barrels down the street, headlights flashing at me like a greeting. My heart does a little leap of relief as Logan pulls up to the curb and rolls down his window.
“Need a ride, beautiful?” he calls out with that crooked smile that somehow makes me forget I’m trapped in my teenage body with my psychotic mother orchestrating this nightmare.
“Always,” I say, climbing into the passenger seat. “I’m not going far. I’m headed to your place.” I guess I’m heading to the Olivers’ after all.
Sometimes, when your world is falling apart and you’re trapped in the wrong timeline with supernatural beings who may or may not be plotting against you, the only anchor you need is the person who knows exactly how to find you in the dark.
25
Skyla
The Oliver house wraps around us like a warm hug with that familiar scent of home-cooked meals and that particular smell that comes from years of teenage boys living under one roof—part athletic equipment, part aftershave, and part the indefinable essence of controlled chaos.
The hardwood floors creak in all the same places they will many years from now, and the family photos lining the hallway show the same crooked smiles that I know by heart.
“It’s weird how exactly the same everything feels,” I murmur to Logan as we pause by the front door.
