"I still can't believeyou didn't fuck the artist."
Amelia sprawls across my battered leather armchair, the smell of hair dye still clinging to her even after our impromptu salon session an hour ago. Her freshly-black hair—goodbye purple, hello power-bitch energy—falls in tousled waves over one shoulder. The jade face mask she insisted on wearing is starting to crack around her mouth. "He had that whole tortured-soul thing going. Probably would've painted you like one of his French girls."
I'm cross-legged on my vintage rug, my gauzy dress pooling around my curves as I watch Salem systematically destroy the crystal grid I spent twenty minutes arranging. The warm glow from my salt lamp catches the silhouettes of the rose quartz and amethyst pieces as he bats them across the wooden floor.
"There weren't any sparks." I tuck a strand of blue hair behind my ear.
"Sparks." Amelia snorts, not looking up from her phone. "Hold on . . ." Her fingers fly across the screen. "Sorry, telling Brad from the gym that no, I don't want to meet his parents next weekend."
"Maybe he really likes you."
"Maybehe needs to read my PairUp bio again. The part where it states, 'Not looking for anything serious,' isn't a challenge." She finally looks up. "Don't change the subject. We're talking about how you haven't been on a date since Vinnie's artist friend, and that was a month ago."
"I've been busy! The Valentine's pop-up event at The Enchanted Quill today needed—"
"Planning. Just like the Christmas market needed planning. And the Halloween festival. And helping Vinnie settle in." She counts on her manicured fingers. "You know what doesn't need planning? Getting laid."
I cinch my cardigan closer around my full frame, breathing in its familiar scent of sage and old books. "Not everyone treats dating like a drive-through menu."
"No, some people treat it like a job they're avoiding by taking on every volunteer position in Hallow's End." Her voice softens. "When was the last time you did something just for you? Not for the shop, not for the town, not for everyone else's love life?"
"I do things for myself! I did that salsa class—"
"With Margie. Because she was nervous about going alone." Amelia sits up, reaching for the wine bottle. "Face it, babe. You're everyone's fairy godmother except your own."
I groan, flopping back onto the rug. The fairy lights strung across my cottage ceiling twinkle mockingly. "I can't help it if I'm good at seeing what other people need."
"While being conveniently blind to your own needs." She points her finger at me, her collection of silver rings catching the light.
"You know what's sad?" I take another sip of wine, letting the warmth spread through my chest. "While we're here getting drunk and talking about my non-existent love life, Vinnie's probably having the best sex of her life with Ethan right now."
"Good for her." Amelia stretches out her long legs, crossing them at the ankles. "An English teacher with a cowboy playlist. Truly, love is blind."
"They're cute together."
"They're disgustingly in love." She rolls her eyes, but there's fondness there. "Did you see his Valentine's post? 'To the girl who colors my world.' I almost threw up in my mouth."
"At least she had someone special to spend tonight with."
"Hey, you're here avoiding the speed dating event you helped plan. I said we could go."
"The Sunflower Bistro has it handled." I sit up, trying not to dwell on the text from Emily earlier asking where I was. "Besides, someone needs to hold space for all that romantic energy being stirred up."
"Ugh, you're literally using spiritual bypassing to justify being alone on Valentine's Day."
"That's not—"
"That's exactly what you're doing." She tosses her phone aside. "You can read everyone else's signs and signals, but the moment it's about you? Suddenly you need tohold spaceorcheck the moon phaseor whatever excuse keeps you safely on the sidelines."
I snort, reaching for the bottle. "I feel like I should be offended."
"Speaking of avoiding perfectly good men . . ." Amelia's tone shifts into something dangerously casual. "Whatever happened with Brian after New Year's? You know, my cousin? The one you said was, and I quote, 'literally modern-day Mr. Darcy'"
I suddenly become very interested in straightening the label on the wine bottle. "It wasn't theright timing."
"Right timing?" She arches an eyebrow. "He's a lawyer who reads poetry and calls his mom. He was about to kiss you at midnight, and then, out of nowhere, you had food poisoning?" Her lips twist. "The same food poisoning that miraculously cleared up after Caleb drove you home."
"That's not . . ." Heat floods my neck. "The universe was clearly sending me signs." But it's easier to blame the planets than admit why I bolted when Brian leaned in—or why my stomach only settled once I was in Caleb's truck, listening to him butcher Fleetwood Mac songs. "And don't remind me about that night. I still feel bad about ditching you with Caleb's date."
