My heart climbs into my throat. “You mean…I’ll have to go on dates? With strangers? That sounds humiliating.”
“It won’t be.”
“You don’t understand. I’m not good in those situations. Without clear rules?—”
“That’s what you have me for. I wrote the rules. Remember?”
“So, what, you’re going to teach me the rules and send me out on my own?” I twist my fingers at my waist, my hands trembling at the mere thought of what he wants me to do.
He slows his pace and stares down at my twining fingers. His voice softens. “If you’re anxious about being alone, we can do it together. I can construct scenarios where it’s appropriate that I accompany you. That way I can coach you in real time. It will be like having my book in your purse, something all the single ladies on the isle will someday do. But in your case, I’ll be beside you. Furthermore, we can alternate who gets to choose which piece of advice to act out. That way you get plenty of say in what you participate in.”
The thought of him being with me eases some of my anxiety. Still, I hate the thought of interacting with strangers. I pull my lips into a grimace. “Couldn’t we…you know…act out your advice together?”
“No.” He utters the word so fast I almost miss the way my heart sinks.
Then I realize the implications of what I just suggested and pull up short. “I didn’t meantogethertogether, because…ew.”
“Ew? That’s your opinion of me?”
I shrug. He’s the one who flirts like it’s the official sport of Faerwyvae and who propositioned Edwina for casual sex. Not to mention all his bawdy jokes about having sex with pirates and breasts that look like whipped cream, or whatever it was he teased William about on tour. And then there’s his broody anecdotes about how he’s not a hero and will never settle down. Does he think I’ve forgotten? Ew indeed.
“When I said together, I meant as pretend,” I say. “And I didn’t mean we’d act out things like the ‘Fifteen Steps to Fantastic Fellatio’—wait.” The blood leaves my face as my terror dawns. “That’s not the kind of advice I’m supposed to demonstrate, is it? Not that I mind doing that or consider myself unskilled, but I’d rather you weren’t watching?—”
“Of fucking course it’s not,” he says, and I’m surprised at the sharpness of his tone. His jaw is tense, a flush of pink creeping up his neck—something I probably wouldn’t be able to see beneath the dim glow of the streetlamps were it not for my excellent nocturnal eyesight. My current senses may not be as keen as they are in my unseelie form, but I retain some of those advantages in this body. He clears his throat, though it seems to take him considerable effort to gather his composure. “You’re not…I’m not…”
He runs a hand over his face, wincing like he did earlier once he reaches his jaw, as if he keeps forgetting about his injury and the ever-growing bruise there.
“You are not fellating anyone in front of me, all right?” he manages to say through clenched teeth. “That’s not going to fucking happen. This is about courtship for the modern working-class woman, and I promised Mr. Fletcher this case study would be real and appropriate. Moreover, it needs a happy ending.”
Relief settles over me, and we proceed walking. “Then why can’t you be the test subject?”
“Me?”
“Yes. If the case study needs to be real, then why not chronicle your own courtships and how others have won your heart?”
Some strained emotion crosses his face that almost looks like grief. Then, with a shake of his head, it’s gone, replaced with a smirk and a self-deprecating tone. “I will not marry, and my case study needs a dazzling conclusion. A happy ending. What kind of happy ending can I provide, when I’m not marriage material? I’m hardly even courtship material, and I know you’ll agree, based on yourewassessment of me.”
I give him an apologetic wince.
“You, on the other hand…”
“You thinkI’mmarriage material?” Maybe I can forgive him for calling me a disaster at dating.
He gives me a pointed look as if to tell me not to get ahead of myself. “With my aid, yes. I’ll help you find the right partner to demonstrate my advice with. You know I have no patience for assholes. I’ll ensure you only interact with the most respectable of specimens. Besides, I’m something of a matchmaker, remember? If we do this well, you’ll be the one who gets a happy ending. You’ll have a partner who can serve as your model long-term. Not just a temporary fix like me.”
It never occurred to me that Monty would only model for me temporarily, though I never considered him a permanent solution either. I was only thinking ofnow. Of how desperate I am to successfully complete my commission. He has a point, though, doesn’t he? What better way to secure a model—a valuable resource for my art—than from the safety of a committed relationship?
And that’s not the only benefit I’m positioned to reap. As I’ve already determined, marriage will solve my most dire problem. The one that will force me to stay in Cypress Hollow if I can’t prove I’ve set down deep and indisputable roots here in Jasper. Lughnasadh is only three months away, which means I need tangible proof by then. My short-term cover commission isn’t enough to constitutestrong roots. Only a promotion to full-time illustrator will. But if I don’t get the promotion, marriage is the surest bet.
“You think you can help me find a husband?” I say, a tremor in my voice.
He raises his brows. “Is that what you want?”
“It’s what I need. For…reasons.” Stupid drunken magical ritual reasons that I’d rather not tell him about yet.
A grin spreads his lips, though I can’t help but think it looks a little forced. “If that’s what you want, I can make it happen. I’ll arm you with the skills to find the perfect match. A man with marriage in mind.”
“A quick marriage,” I add. “It has to take place before Lughnasadh.”
