But why do I suddenly care?
I don’t care, just to be clear. I’m only curious.
She shoots a quick glance out toward the farm, and I follow her gaze. At night, the place is stunning. The moon bathes the grass in a silvery light, grass that unfurls to a fenced pasture that gleams almost ethereally.
Wait. It doesn’talmostgleam. Itdoesgleam.
As I watch, a breeze washes over the grass, and as the blades bend, the earth beneath glows as if it just became activated.
I’ve never seen anything quite like it. For as many places as I’ve traveled—all over the world—this swatch of land is magical.
“It’s the ley lines,” she says, yanking me from my thoughts.
I drag my gaze from the pasture back to her. She’s not looking at me. Instead, she stares into the night.
“Sorry?” I ask.
“The ley lines. They’re rivers of power that exist in the land. That’s why Mystic Meadows is—orwas—magical. At least here it still is, somewhat.” She tips her head back and forth as if chewing on a thought. “But anyway, you can see the power on the farm because this is where the ley lines are.” She nods toward the meadow. “The land glows.”
“It sure does,” I reply, enchanted.
For as beautiful as the land is farther out, the stuff closest to the house is scrubby, as if the magic doesn’t quite reach it, like there’s an artery blockage stopping the power from seeping through.
“I also get final say in all things,” she murmurs, still looking away.
“Good. I was beginning to think you didn’t have any more rules.”
Her gaze snaps on me. “Oh, I have more rules.”
“I would expect nothing less.”
“Are you making fun of me?”
“Absolutely not, Sunbeam.” On hearing her nickname, she physically bristles, her back going ramrod straight. “All I’m saying is that based on our encounters so far, I have no doubt you’ve got a list of rules inside that complicated head of yours.”
She frowns. “I’m not complicated—and yes, I do.”
Okay, sure. Not complicated.
She shifts her weight and returns her gaze to the land, giving me a perfect view of her profile. She leans over the railing, and moonlight splashes on her skin, making her glow just like the rest of the earth.
Whatever magic hangs in the air, it’s shrouded her, and I don’t think she has any idea that it’s happening.
She looks like an angel.
Of death.
For me.
Keep thinking that way, Pane. You’ve got sixty days to win an empire. Not sixty days to lose your heart.
“You get final say,” I repeat. “So even if I have an idea that I know will make you money—”
“You won’t do it unless I give my approval.”
“No.”
She balks. “What?”
