She knows something, I’m sure of it. Otherwise, why would she send me to have my fortune read? I can’t believe it’s just coincidence. On a whim, I pull the piece of paper out of my pocket and hand it to her. “Does this symbol mean anything to you?”
She takes it from me and unfolds it, frowning. And then her eyes spring wide. “Where did you get this?”
I start to answer her, just as Sophie pokes her head out of the bookmobile. “There you are, Auntie Rune! We thought maybe the psychic ate you.”
“No one thought that,” echoes Emma’s disgruntled voice from behind her. “You’re just saying that now because you’re hungry. Which you wouldn’t be, if everyone had just paid attention to my list! It’s very organized.”
God, she reminds me of Charlotte. “Well, maybe your mom’s almost done,” I say, my eyes still trained on Mrs. Fontaine’s face. She’s always been hard to read, even when I was younger andtrying to talk my way out of overdue fines. This is no exception: she’s schooled her face back to its normal cordial expression as she presses the folded paper back into my hand.
I want to ask her what the symbol meant to her, because clearly it meantsomething.But this isn’t the time, in front of the girls and Charlotte, who’s emerged with her arms full of paperbacks, Emma trailing right behind her. “Just ten more minutes,” she promises her daughters. “Then we’ll do the carousel.”
“You always say ten minutes,” Emma protests. “But it’s always forever, and then we won’t have time to—Sophie! Not again! Mama and Mom both said we can’t get a dog. You’re ’lergic. Come back here!”
With a sinking feeling, I turn my head to see where Sophie’s darted off to this time. Sure enough, between the caramel apple cart and the taco truck is the animal rescue shelter’s tent, showcasing adorable puppies and kittens who need a new home. It’s an excellent marketing strategy, if less than sanitary, but right now, all I can think is that it’s also an endeavor fueled by volunteers. Which means that the person I’m least prepared to see right now might be staffing the very booth Sophie’s making a beeline for.
“Oh no. Mrs. Fontaine, could you please hold these for me?” Charlotte thrusts her books into the librarian’s hands and runs off after Sophie, Emma right behind her. Giving Mrs. Fontaine a we’ll-talk-about-this-later look, I follow.
Beneath the shelter’s tent is a bulldog with a head the size of a dinner plate, the most adorable Siamese kitten ever, an assortment of big-and-little mutts, and Jenny, who waves at me with one hand while wrangling a Rottweiler mix with the other. There’s a bunch of teen volunteers who are probably racking up credits for Beta Club, too. But no Donovan.
It’s for the best. I know it is, especially in light of recent revelations. But then, why am I so disappointed?
Later,I tell myself, the folded piece of paper warm in my palm.For now, just be grateful he’s not here. You’ll have to deal with him soon enough.
Sophie’s thrown her arms around the bulldog’s neck, refusing to let go, and Emma’s stomping her foot with frustration. Pushing my worries to the back of my mind, I’m on the verge of heading over to help when a sardonic voice rumbles from behind me.
“In the market for Valentine’s sibling?”
I turn. And find myself looking into the cobalt-blue, extremely pissed-off eyes of the man I never intend to marry.
Chapter
Twenty-Three
“You ran away,”Donovan says, before I have a chance to reply. “Twice.”
Are we really going to do this here, in front of all of Sapphire Springs? “This isn’t the time,” I hiss at him, slipping the paper with the symbol into my purse. “I’m here with Charlotte and her daughters. And, you know, people havecameras.” I gesture at Mrs. Fontaine, who’s stopped shelving books and is staring at us, not even bothering to pretend otherwise. Across the lawn, Mrs. Grant’s frozen mid-burger-flip.
“I don’t care about the cameras. I care about what spooked you so badly that you ran out without a word after the hottest ten minutes of my life.” He bites his lip. “Did I do something wrong, Rune? Was that why you ran away?”
The anxiety in his voice nearly undoes me. “Technically speaking, I said several words,” I hedge, uncomfortably aware of the fact that we’re drawing attention. Charlotte’s stopped trying to untangle Sophie’s arms from around the bulldog’s neck, and Jenny’s eyeing us with unmistakable disapproval—which, given that the two of them aren’t dating, I just don’t get.
“Ah, yes.I don’t want you to stop, but we have to.What could be clearer than that?” His jaw is set, his tone icy. But even on short acquaintance, I know him well enough to recognize the hurt that runs beneath it. More than anything, I want to fix it. But I can’t. For his own good—and mine—I have to push him away.
“Not everything is black and white, Donovan,” I snap.
The blue of his eyes deepens. I swear, I could spend all day looking into them, watching how they shift color in the light. “No?” he says, taking a step closer. “Well then, enlighten me.”
Part of me wants to retreat. The rest wants to drag him into the bushes and have my way with him. I settle for grabbing his hand and pulling him through the crowd, doing my best to ignore the warmth of his fingers as they twine with mine and the electricity that surges through me at his touch. He doesn’t say a word or ask questions as I tug him along, over a small footbridge, guiding us at last into the gazebo that sits at the edge of the park’s lake. Mercifully empty, accessible only by the footbridge and a narrow path, the gazebo’s about as private as we’re going to get, unless one of the Sinsters is using a telephoto lens.
Donovan stands there, hands shoved into his pockets. “Well?”
“You didn’t do anything wrong.” I sigh, toying with the hem of my shirt.
“Then what? I don’t understand.”
With him right next to me, radiating that delectable cedar-and-vanilla scent, I’m hard pressed to remember why being with him is so wrong, much less to believe that he could be the one behind Ella’s predictions. “We work together, Donovan,” I manage. “It’s not professional.”
“I told you, I read the manual,” he says stubbornly. “I’m not your supervisor, and you’re not mine. There’s no power differential. It’s not a problem.”
