Electra halts in her tracks, making me draw to an abrupt stop. “What’s a go?” she asks, fishing out a pair of sunglasses from the thigh pocket of her leggings.
“My best friend’s bachelorette party.”
“Hmm.” That’s all Electra does—hums—until we’ve passed through the doorway leading to the customer parking lot. And then she pivots and says in a tone so flat it could hammer down a nail, “I didn’t realize you took side gigs as an adult entertainer.”
“I don’t.”
The air is muggy from the incessant drizzle needling Boston since daybreak, not a speck of sunshine in sight, yet Electra has brought out the sunglasses. I figure it’s a habit, like vampires venturing out only after dark.
“Jen wants to hire me for a two-hour Zumba session.”
Electra crosses her arms, propping up her breasts, which ends up straining the small white block letters printed into the maroon cotton. I hadn’t taken the time to read it earlier, but one glance has the corner of my mouth lifting: “Bad Bookish Bitch.”
“You like reading?” I make sure to hit the right pitch to sound ignorant.
Not only do I know Electra Serran is a bookworm, but I also know the types of books she favors—romance. To say it shocked me the day I was given this piece of information about my target would be an understatement. I’d observed Electra for weeks at that point andneverwould have pegged her as a happily-ever-after seeker.
“What did we agree to last night?” she asks, not bothering to answer my question.
I look at her mouth. Here I thought she’d been wearing lipstick at the gala, but the light of day reveals her lips are naturally berry-stained.
“I help you convince Malachi you’re taken, in exchange for which you grant me a date at the time and place of my choosing.”
Her cheek twitches—and not with a smile. “I seriously caved to that demand?”
“You seriously caved.”
“I guess it could be worse. Did we discuss a strategy?”
The summer heat teases the sharp tang of citrus off her skin, sending it curling upward.
“You said we’d do it in the morning,” I say.
“Okay. All right. Fine. It’s fine. Everything’s fine.”
“Electra,” I say calmly, “everythingisfine.”
“How are you so chill about this?”
“Because I’ve been trying to work up the courage to ask you out for weeks.”
She purses her lips, still unconvinced. Or so I think. “No kissing unless strictly necessary. No touching unless I initiate it. And if Malachi remains unconvinced, then our dinner date is canceled.”
“You control the script,” I say, dropping my bag on the hood of the Woody.
Although I’ve repaired and replaced everything in that car—from the battery to the radio to the windshield wipers—all Electra will see is its rusted bodywork and chipped faux wood. She won’t see how far it’s taken me or how safe it’s made me feel.
Once done evaluating my car, Electra starts on me, her gaze sweeping from my navy trucker hat to my prescription glasses to my high-tops.
Not for the first time, I kick myself for not taking a Sharpie to Quinn’s customization—at least to our initials. But the doodles on my shoes were the first thing she’d made after years of creative nothingness, and defacing them had felt sacrilegious.
Electra parts her mouth, probably to set down more ground rules, when the back door ofBloom’s Bloomsswings wide and out steps the man of her dreams.
Though his gaze is shaded like hers, his lenses are so lightly tinted that I don’t miss the way his eyes shift from soft to harsh as they move from her to me.
For a split second, I consider the possibility that he took a shovel to my past and unearthed something about me. Something I took great care in covering up.
“Sorry I’m late,” he finally says. “Some people don’t know how to condense their thoughts.” Malachi tilts his head. “Is— What was your name again?”
