“Thank you, Marci!” Quin said more forcefully, and Marci ducked out the room with a weak, “Sorry, Quin.”
Silence settled awkwardly between them as they avoided eye contact. Quin straightened an already straight pile of paperwork. Glyma fidgeted with the buttons of the cardigan she was still wearing. Since Quin had actually dropped the temperature, she was happy to keep it on. It was quite chilly in this room.
“Shall I—” Quin said at the same time Glyma said, “Maybe we should—”
They both fell silent, waiting for the other to speak. Glyma was the first to try again, “I think we’re making this harder than it needs to be. We’re both adults who just happen to be attracted to each other. That happens all the time.”
“It does,” Quin agreed.
“But we don’t see people having orgies in the streets,” Glyma tittered.
“Thank gods for that,” Quin said.
“Well, we clearly disagree on what makes a good Friday night, but we’ll put a pin in that. What I mean is,” Glyma said, ignoring Quin’s worried wince, “we have self-control. We can keep things professional.”
Quin nodded. “So professional.”
“Exactly. We can do this. I believe in us. We’ll just be two non-strangers who are attracted to each other.”
“Sharing a cigarette,” Quin finished, and Glyma laughed.
“Yeah.” Rubbing her hands together, she scrutinized the different papers. “So, Miss Duboi, where do we start?”
Relief loosened Quin’s features as she slid two files across the table. “Shall we start with the business plans, Miss Aryti?”
“Sounds good to me.”
As promised, Quin had drafted two different business plans—one for if she pursued a location within the Pentagram, another for Purgatory. She’d researched the best banks for Glyma to apply for a business loan, and she’d even printed out the applications. She had notes to help prep Glyma for her interview with a loan officer and the paperwork needed for her to officially incorporate.
“I was going to before,” Glyma said when Quin asked if she had submitted the paperwork already. “But it felt weird to when I don’t have anything ready.”
“Incorporating your business is the first step, and I suggest you do that immediately. The bank will want to see your business on file.”
“Right. Okay.”
As Glyma filled out the paperwork to incorporate her business, Quin opened her laptop and started typing. They worked like that until Glyma had finished signing her name on the dotted line. Then Quin added another document, then another.
Together, they filled out several loan applications so they would be ready for submission the moment Glyma received her business tax I.D. Then they went through the locations Quin believed had the most potential for success. Purgatory was among them, and Glyma’s stomach bubbled with excitement anew.
“I hope you don’t mind, but Waryn made some calls on my—your—behalf. He’s a realtor, so he was able to get some behind-the-scenes information on some of these locations,” Quin said as she scrolled through the different rental spaces. “These two are getting lots of attention. They’re both prime spots and have a high chance of success when it comes to foot traffic, but you’llhave a lot of competition. You may even have to bid to pay a higher rent in order to make yourself more appealing to the rental company who owns it.”
“Bid to pay higher rent?” Glyma squawked, and Quin nodded empathetically.
“That has become more common as the population rises and housing is harder to come by. It started in the residential sector, but it’s already permeating commercial spaces.”
“But I already can barely afford the rent they’re asking for, and that’s only if I get a business loan approved.”
“I know,” Quin commiserated.
Glyma’s excitement gave way to crushing disappointment, and she was both shocked and elated when Quin placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. Even through the cardigan, she could feel the heat of her, and that wanton, never-satisfied need in her gut perked up its ears. Throughout her life, she had learned control, she had learned moderation, yet a simple touch from this woman threatened to dismantle her completely.
She’d heard rumors of these types of connections, of meeting someone whose soul sang to another’s, a melody only they could hear. They went by different names. Sirens. Fated mates. Mirrors. For Incubi, they were called soul singers, and to find your very own was rare and precious.
They were just stories, of course. Folklore. The reality of such connections had faded into legend, along with the gods of old. Soul singers were myth the way Helhunds and Drogyns were, lost to the passage of time and only spoken of in awed whispers under the cover of blankets or around campfires.
So Quin couldn’t be her soul singer. She just couldn’t.
Right?
