"Want to learn one?" I ask, flipping the coin across my knuckles before vanishing it into my palm.
Her eyes go wide. "Could I?"
I settle near her on the sofa, and she scoots closer, tucking one leg under her. Lucky shifts at her feet but doesn't budge otherwise.
I hold the coin flat in my palm. "It's not about speed," I tell her. "It's about making someone look where you want instead of where the coin actually goes."
She nods solemnly, as if I'm teaching her state secrets.
"Here's the move." I slide the coin into my other hand, close my fist, then open it empty. Her gasp is instant. The coin reappears between my fingers.
"Wait—how—"
"Relax," I chuckle. "You're looking at the wrong hand. That's the trick. Misdirection."
I place the coin in her palm and fold her fingers over it, my hand covering hers a beat longer than necessary. Heat jumps between us, sharp and impossible to ignore.
"Now," I say, softer, "pretend you're putting it in your other hand. Keep your eyes steady—don't look down. Make me believe."
She mimics the motion, transferring the coin. But she glances at her fist at the last second, and we both laugh when I catch her.
"See? You told me where to look." I touch under her chin, guiding her gaze back to mine. "Look at me, not the coin. Make me believe the lie."
Her throat works as she swallows. "Okay. Again."
This time, she keeps her gaze locked on me. Our faces are close—too close—and for a second, the coin trick is secondary to the feel of her breath brushing my cheek.
When she opens her fist to reveal emptiness, her startled delight bursts out of her like champagne bubbles. "I did it!"
I grin. "There she is." The real Charity, not the perfect daughter they tried to create.
Her laugh softens, the coin forgotten on her palm. Her gaze catches mine, unguarded and curious, and it lights a slow fire under my skin, daring me to move.
"Want to see the world for one night?" The question leaves before I second-guess it. "Not the museum version. Mine. Noise, lights, people who don't care about your last name."
Her throat works. "I shouldn't."
"You should." A half-smile. "First rule of misdirection? Stop asking permission."
Her smile tips, reckless for once. "Okay. Show me."
"Tomorrow night," I say. "Midnight. Side gate by the roses. Gives you all day to prepare, to think of an excuse for your parents. Wear something you can walk in."
She exhales as if she's been holding her breath for years. "Okay."
Silence settles—not empty, charged. The cottage window throws moonlight across the floorboards, turning dust motes into slow fireworks. She turns the coin in her fingers, then holds it out to me.
"One more trick?"
"Careful." I ease a little closer, closing my hand over hers. "Last one's dangerous."
No flourish. No patter. I take the coin, slide it along the back of her knuckles, then let it disappear—simple, clean. She lets out a tiny breath, still watching my hands.
When she looks up to ask where it went, I’m already closer than before—a breath or two—close enough that her lashes flicker in surprise. I lean in.
The kiss starts as a brush—testing, not taking. Heat hits anyway, sudden and bright, like a spark finding dry tinder. Her breath hitches; her fingers catch at my shirt, then fist the fabric. I keep it gentle because she's never done this before—never been kissed by someone she chose, never tasted freedom on someone else's mouth. Everything in me wants to go slow.
Still, the taste of her—spicy tea and sweet honey—wrecks my caution. My thumb finds the hinge of her jaw; she follows the touch, leaning in instead of away. The world narrows to the soft give of her mouth and the tiny sound she makes when my lower lip skims hers again.
