I throw up a force field as the mass implodes, sucking the air from the room like a vacuum, pulling me along with it. My shirttails threaten to get sucked into the vortex, but I hit the mass with another blow of magic and the balloon deflates, falling on the table in a lifeless heap of golden threads.
I glare at it for nearly destroying my home and say sarcastically, “And here I thought we had the spellthattime.”
Hands (both of them—they always act together) jumps back onto the table and glowers at me.
Yes, hands can glower.
I rub a palm down what I assume can only be my very tired-looking face. “You’re the one who wanted to add milkweed.”
Hands shakes, telling me that I’m not so easily forgiven for throwing around sarcasm like a pair of tossed-aside underwear.
“Look.” I scoop up the mess and drop it into a trash can. “I told you it wasn’t going to work.” Hands’s fingers sag over the palms of his body in shame. “It’s all right. You’re forgiven. It’s nothing that a bottle of water and a new set of hands can’t solve.”
He does not look amused.
“I’m only joking.” I chuckle and head from the lab into the kitchen, which is pristine—everything in its place. I run a palm over the smooth marble counter, dance my fingers to the edge and open the refrigerator. “I wouldn’t give you up for anything. You know that.”
Once a bottle of water is in my grasp, I shut the door and lean on the refrigerator, taking a large gulp. Hands walks his way into the room and jumps onto the counter.
He signs and I nod. “I’m aware that sometimes milkweed can work, but I told you that it wouldn’t, and before you ask, no, I haven’t seenityet.”
Hands stares at me blankly.
“Staring at me doesn’t make my visions come any quicker. I will see the one we need. Trust me, it can’t come soon enough,” I mutter under my breath.
He signs,Maybe you should have some fun to get your mind off it.
“What would I know about fun?” Hands twitches his fingers. Hint taken. Yes, I like the company of women, and no, I don’t like to get emotionally involved.
When you can see the future, sometimes it’s not a future that you want to know about.
Hands teeters over to a slip of black paper and lifts it.
“That’s not funny.” I snatch away the witch ball invitation and toss it to the other side of the counter, where that pest can’t get to it. “Yes, I know Blair Thornrose is up for grabs. Well aware, thank you, and no, I have no intention of going to that ball. What do you think, I want to torture myself?”
You went before,he signs.
“That was before it was her ball.For her.For Blair to be married off. No. I’m not going, and that’s the end of it.” He waits a moment, which is Hands’s annoying habit of suggesting that I really want to attend that dance. “I know we had something in the past, but I’ve explained all that.”
But explaining it doesn’t change anything. If there is a ball and I know that Blair will be present, it has been my habit in the past to go. But I shouldn’t have. However, I am what you call a glutton for punishment. I simply can’t stop myself from dancing withthat womanevery chance I get.
But good grief, she’s going to be getting married. I can’t keep flirting with her, which is what I would do if I went tonight. Flirt shamelessly and drink it up while she verbally flambés me.
Such a turn-on.
No.She is trouble. Too much trouble. Distance between us is good. A lot of distance. So much distance that I don’t even know she exists, and so that she continues to believe the lie that I cheated on her.
Yes, it’s a lie.
It’s all for the best, because whenever I see her, it feels like someone’s putting their hand through my chest and squeezing my heart. I can’t keep doing that to myself.
Decision made—I’m not going to the ball, and I’m sure as hell not going to flirt with her anymore. From now on I’ll be stone-cold.
A stone-cold fox.
Hands stares at me.Right. We were having a conversation. “I’m not going to that ball, and I’m not pursuing Blair. If I hadn’t?—”
The doorbell rings.
