PROLOGUE
DAPHNE
Flippant. Brash. Arrogant. Reckless. I have several choice words to describe Monty Phillips, and none of them are flattering.
My opinion was set the day I began my internship at Fletcher-Wilson Publishing. The first thing Monty said to me was notHello,how do you do, orNice to meet you. It was, “I must inform you my personality is twisted. Don’t take me too seriously.” All the while he had a crooked, dimpled grin on his too-handsome face. I simply stared at him, canines bared in disgust. Because, unlike him, I was taking my new jobveryseriously. As the only four-legged fae employee at Fletcher-Wilson, and perhaps the first pine marten any of my coworkers had seen in person, I needed to make a good impression. Do the right things. Say the right words. I’d failed at integrating into seelie society once before. I wouldn’t fail again.
And there Monty Phillips was, joking around with ease, flipping a cigarillo between his fingers as if work was just a brief interlude between smoke breaks.
“We’re going to have a lot of fun working together, Daffy Dear,” he said, then sauntered off to do who knows what. I didn’t take him for someone who got any work done.
I was stunned. While all the other coworkers I’d been introduced to stammered over having to address me by first name instead of a proper surname like humans have, he didn’t bother to use my name at all. He called meDaffy, not Daphne. The nerve!
My assessment of his work ethic hasn’t improved over the last year we’ve been colleagues. He’s still the same flippant rake he was the day we met. But I’ve gotten to know him a little better. We even managed a book tour together, with him as the publicist and me as his assistant.
Now I catch sight of him in Fletcher-Wilson’s lobby for the first time in what feels like ages, and there isn’t an ounce of annoyance in my heart at seeing him again.
Only joy.
For all my talk about Monty Phillips’ flaws, I’ve come to consider him one of my favorite people. Odd how the most annoying personalities can wriggle their way into your heart. Like a parasitic bug.
Yes, that sums up Monty nicely.
A heartworm.
One that’s slithering away from me.
My joy shifts, tightening my lungs, as I watch the space growing between us. I’ve just stepped into our workplace’s lobby from upstairs, while he’s making a beeline for the front door. Sunlight streams through the large windows, which display a view of horse-drawn carriages and suit-clad pedestrians. My eyes, however, are locked only on Monty. His retreating back reminds me how long it’s been since we’ve had a full conversation. Since we chatted and laughed like friends.
At least…I thought we were friends.
Can two people still be friends even if they rarely see one another?
It’s been a year since we managed The Heartbeats Tour together, a wildly successful event for two of Fletcher-Wilson’s most popular authors, Edwina Danforth and William Haywood—both of whom became our dear friends by the end. That was the last time Monty and I worked so closely together. I was still an intern then, but now that I’ve been promoted to an editorial assistant, I spend most of my time working on the editorial floor. I haven’t assisted on a single book tour since, while Monty has done nothing but manage one after another.
The thought that I might not see him again for months on end has his name leaping from my lips, twisted into a question.
“Monty?”
He pauses before turning around, and when he does, another spark of joy warms my chest. He looks the same as ever. Same charming grin, same pair of dimples in his cheeks, same pale blond hair falling in loose curls that makes him look every inch the devilish rake I know him to be. Same haphazard state of dress with his loose cravat, open collar, and a waistcoat without a jacket. Same casual grace, his hands tucked into his trouser pockets and an unlit cigarillo perched over the rounded shell of his ear.
His eyes sweep over me, and I’m reminded that he may look the same as ever, but I don’t.
The last time he saw me, I was a pine marten. A small creature with a fluffy tail that frolicked on four paws.
Now I look like a woman.
As a fae, I have the ability to shift between two physical manifestations. Unseelie form is a fae’s natural manifestation—a pine marten, in my case—while seelie form is a body modeled after human likeness, save for the telltale angled tip of our ears. Monty has only seen me in my seelie form once. He doesn’t know I’ve recently adopted this body full-time.
I shift from foot to foot, my stomach clenching as I await his reaction. Is it strange for him, seeing me this way? Does he think my clothing suits me? I’m dressed in flowing slacks, a blouse, and a waistcoat. It’s a far cry from the yellow dress I wore the last time he saw me in this body. An even farther cry from my fluffy gray-brown fur and mustelid figure. Then again, I’m not sure why I should care what he thinks. I may no longer despise the man, but he’s still the same ridiculous rake he always was. He’s still just my friend. And yet I can’t help hoping he’ll…I don’t know. Say something nice? Compliment me?
Then the most mortifying realization dawns. What if he doesn’t even recognize?—
“Hey, Daffy.” There’s no hesitation in his voice. No uncertainty.
He recognizes me after all.
I blow out a relieved breath, though I’m still apprehensive as I make my way toward him. I’m too aware of the way I walk, the careful steps I take that are so unlike the way I used to scamper about. I don’t recall ever being this self-conscious around him before. “I haven’t seen you in a while,” I say.
