I blink my darker thoughts away and relish the distraction. My lips curl. “Whatever could you mean?”
“You keep putting flower petals in that damn book of yours. One time I opened it and had an entire lapful of pink petals fall all over my skirt.”
I can’t help but laugh at her chagrin.
“Does that also explain why you’re so quiet when you move? How you’ve been able to sneak up on me a few times?”
I shrug. “Flowers are quiet.”
She gives me a curious once over before she returns to studying the flower. “What is this even made of?”
“Fae magic,” I say.
“Yes, but how? Is it made from your skin? Does it grow out of your body? Do you shed petals like waste material?” With a gasp, she looks up at me again. “Is this poop?”
I nearly choke on my own laughter. “I just made you a beautiful flower, and you have the nerve to ask if it’s poop?”
Her smile is so coy I want to kiss it off her face. “Well, is it?”
“No, Ed.” I push off the wall and resume walking toward Halley Street, my cheeks pained from the smile I can’t seem to banish. I shake my head. “Is it poop, she asks. You know, the fae don’t seek to explain everything with science. We just call it magic.”
She strolls at my side, then tucks the flower in the loose bun at the top of her head. “I suppose I wouldn’t want to know if it’s poop anyway. Now that it’s in my hair.”
I snort another laugh. “What am I going to do with you? Blooming weirdo.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
EDWINA
Iknow I’ve acknowledged this before, but William’s smile is a work of art. I’ve seen it quite a bit the last few days as I’ve watched his genuine interactions with Zane, but this time, it’s just for me. It’s never looked brighter. I’m so dazzled by it that I don’t notice he’s taken us down a detour until I realize I no longer see the blaring lights of Halley Street just ahead. The street we’re on now is livelier than the ones we strolled down on our way from the theater, but not so lively as Halley. Only half the establishments are open this late, most of which appear to be vapor houses or pubs. The stragglers on the sidewalk are either stumbling to their next haunt or smoking and chatting outside their place of enjoyment. Of course, there are a few pairs like William and me, who seem to be on their way back home.
“Weren’t we almost there?” I ask. “Why did we turn down this street?”
“We’re not done talking yet,” he says, his smile still twisting his lips. The green glow illuminating the sign of a nearby vapor house catches on the silver jewelry in his pointed ears. “You owe me a secret.”
I wince. I may have offered him that trade but I didn’t have a secret in mind. “I think you know my darkest secret.”
He smirks. “Oh, you mean how you haven’t done literally every sexual position and activity you’ve written about? That’s not a secret, love. Anyone who expects that of you should reassess their relationship with reality.”
My heart stutters when he calls melove. It’s not the first time he’s called me that, and I’ve never thought twice about it. He calls other womenlovetoo. But with that smile on his face, his casual tone of voice, and the evening we’ve enjoyed thus far, it strikes me in a different way. I force my focus back to what he said. “Jolene expected that of me.”
“Yes, well, Jolene is gullible.” There’s no warmth on his face when he mentions the woman he kissed and spent a night with. It may have been a platonic night, but Jolene was moved by it nonetheless. He told her about June, someone he still hasn’t brought up even once with me.
I clench my jaw to keep from asking about this great love of his. It’s my turn to share a secret, not his. Maybe after I’ve shared something personal, I can get him to agree to another trade. Eager to get my part done with, I say, “Ask me anything.”
He lifts his chin and assesses me from under his lashes. “Anything?”
“Anything reasonable,” I amend.
He tucks his hands in his pockets and tilts his head in thought. Then he meets my eyes in an almost bashful way. “Have you ever been in love?”
My cheeks burn at the question. I’m almost of a mind to tell him that’s too personal but I suppose it isn’t. I bite the inside of my cheek before answering. “I thought I was in love once.”
William’s gaze burns into me, and I can tell he wants me to elucidate. Still, he doesn’t pry. Maybe that’s what makes me want to tell him more.
“It was during my college days,” I say. “I won an award for a short story, which resulted in its publication in one of the biggest papers in Bretton. This was before I found my passion for writing romance, so the story wasn’t sensational. It was more of an imitation of the great writers we were encouraged to evoke in my college writing program. Somehow it was impressive enough to win an award, publication, and the admiration of a young man named Dennis Feverforth.”
“I already don’t like him,” William says, teasing in his tone.
