“Maybe,” I replied, trying my best to sound mysterious. “It depends on your secret. What’s something no one knows?”
Ryan leaned closer, the tips of his ears reddening as he dropped his voice. “I still sleep with a teddy bear named Mr. Fluffypants, and I’m thirty-two.”
I bit my lip to stifle a laugh. I tried to imagine what that must look like and couldn’t help but picture Ryan in an adult-sized onesie, sleeping with his thumb in his mouth. It was impossible not to smile at the sight, but I cleared my throat and forced myself to sound serious. “Scandalous.”
“Embarrassing is more like it,” Ryan muttered, finishing his beer. The flush on his cheeks faded as his confidence returned. “So, now that I've kept my end of the deal, can you keep yours? Or should we find a different currency to exchange?”
My laugh slipped out before I could stop it. I had zero interest in a threesome with this man and Mr. Fluffypants, but his secret was undeniably amusing. I would grant his wish.
I breathed in Ryan’s words, letting them wrap around the strand that tethered me to my lineage. Warmth pooled in mycenter as the magic spread. It built inside me, slow at first and then overwhelmingly fast until it released in a hot rush that was almost orgasmic. In mere seconds, a long, coarse beard emerged from Ryan’s chin, the thick strands spreading across his face and down to his chest.
“It was nice meeting you,” I said, dismissing him as I turned to leave.
Ryan didn’t argue or even try to convince me to stay. He’d already forgotten who I was. That was the beauty of my magic. My victims didn’t remember their world being different before the wish, if I granted it, or me.
I turned quickly, high on the lingering energy, but barely made it five steps before bumping into a hard body. I jumped instinctively, and nearly fell backward, but was quickly wrapped in the arms of a stranger as the smell of cedar and spice swirled through my senses.
“Sorry,” I muttered, looking into the eyes the color of Montana Sapphires.
The stranger’s lips lifted into a pearly white smile, and I was stunned.
Mesmerized.
The man wasn’t wearing a lavish St. Patrick's Day outfit like most of the people in the bar were. NoKiss Me I’m Irishshirt or a speck of green. Nor was he shirtless and in a kilt like some of the other men in the room, although the strange thought that I’d love to see him like that floated into my mind. Despite not being dressed for the holiday, he looked effortlessly handsome in blue jeans fitted with a long-sleeved button-down shirt with the top button undone.
And… familiar.
“I’m not sorry,” he said, his voice as smooth as velvet.
Something stirred inside me, a pull stronger than anything I’d felt before. I took a step back, instinctively wary. I’dhad crushes before and felt sparks of attraction, but this was different.
I glanced around, looking for my sister, Dahlia—a heart weaver. A gentry with the ability to feel and enhance people’s emotions. Some people might call her a cupid. She loved playing matchmaker, though her gift, unlike mine, wasn’t restricted to one day a year. If Dahlia sensed strong enough emotions, she would give people the push they needed to make a move.
I'd never felt Dahlia’s power before, but right now, I wondered if my sister was up to something because this pull tasted like magic.
And if it wasn’t Dahlia meddling, then what kind of trouble was I about to get myself into?
LIAM
Itwisted a mug of frothy, green beer against the sticky high-top table, my fingers absently tracing condensation that slid down the glass. The noise around me was overwhelming —laughter, clinking mugs, and the occasional cheer from a group glued to the TVs overhead. The chaos didn’t help my mood.
I was tired.
Exhausted.
Three months into a bet with my brothers and I was no closer to finding someone to marry. If I couldn’t find someone, let alone make them fall in love with me by the end of the summer, I’d lose everything. Well, not everything, but the only thing that mattered.
I twisted the mug again, remembering how I thought winning would be easy. The rules were simple: find a pretty girl. Wine, dine, and woo her. Lock her in with a ring, and thenbam!
But it hadn’t been that easy. Every girl I’d met hadn’t been right. There was something about each Tinder date and bar hookup that left me unsatisfied. Longing. Sounding like a fucking pussy.
A small, potentially psychotic, part of me was relieved. I’d never admit it out loud, but I didn’t want the pressure ofrunning the family empire. Six restaurants and three bars were overwhelming. I was happy with my slice of heaven, Abbott's, and if it wasn’t tangled up in the web of the bet I wouldn’t even be trying.
I spun the mug once more, grimacing as I caught a faint whiff of the crap this bar tried to pass as beer. It had a faintly metallic taste like it had been brewed in a tin can. It was probably the worst drink I’d had in months.
I sighed and stared at the two inches of foam on top of the green liquid. Tonight was supposed to be a break, one night away from the weight of the bet. No scouting. No wondering if this girl or that could be the one. Just one drink, definitely not this one, and maybe a conversation or two.
But even that seemed impossible. Instead, I’d spent the last fifteen minutes spiraling deeper into my thoughts, the idea of being a silent partner as a forty percent shareholder of the bar I built from the ground up gnawing at me.
