Chapter 13
Pane
Sunbeam kissed me for liking her biscuits?
Wonder how she’ll thank me when I praise her pot roast.
Will clothing come off?
Stop it, Pane.
There will be no further thoughts of tongues, lips, or other body parts.
Because now I know who she is. The only reason a person kisses a man they just met is because they’re either starved for love, or they’re a social climber.
Rowe wants to use me. This is an old game. Her plan is to see if she can seduce me into handing over half my fortune. She’ll play coy for two months until I’m tied up in knots over her. Then it won’t matter if I save the farm, because in sixty days I’ll be proposing. She’ll have landed a prize much better than her home.
Me.
Well, it’s not going to work.
My heart thuds against my ribs as I drive us into town. It hasn’t stopped pounding since we left the house. It feels like my chest is too small for my heart, like it’s going to pop right out of my rib cage.
Worse—with it comes all these strange feelings. Tangled and knotted desires that sink into my bones. Rowe’s wildflower-and-sunshine scent permeates the truck’s cabin, smothering me.
Thoughts of plucking flowers and giving them to her pop into my head.
What is wrong with me?
Must be the magic in the land or something, because I am not, Iwillnot be taken in by a fortune hunter.
I won’t be fooled again.
My fingers tighten on the steering wheel, and I shove all these strange emotions away and focus on the drive.
“Turn left up there,” she says from the opposite side of the bench seat. Rowe’s squeezed her body into the smallest pretzel possible as she sits pressed against the door.
She hasn’t looked at me once since we got into the truck. I’ve returned the favor.
As we enter town, my gaze sweeps over Mystic Meadows, and I can say with complete certainty that I’ve never seen anything quite like this before.
It’s as if a unicorn caught a violent stomach flu andvomitedgrimy rainbow sparkles over every building.
The facades—once white, I assume—are now streaked with years of neglect. Instead of the polished, gleaming surfaces I expect from a town that supposedly thrives on tourism, every inch is coated in a dull film of grime, as though dark ash has settled deep into the pores of the wood.
Swinging placards creak overhead, weathered by time and indifference: Mystic Sweets. The Enchanted Café. The Horned Hat Boutique. Most of the businesses cling to the unicorn theme, though their names do little to distract from the chipped paint and sagging awnings.
The central square istechnicallybusy, though it has the energy of a party long past its prime. A few sluggish tourists drift near a massive unicorn statue, snapping pictures more out of obligation thanexcitement. The statue itself—rearing back on its hind legs, front hooves pawing the air—hasn’t escaped the decay. Its once-shimmering surface has been dulled by time, its proud horn chipped at the tip.
I spot a billboard advertisingThe Unicorn Water Park!, complete with faded cartoon drawings of prancing unicorns. Another sign boastsUnicorn Zip Lines!And then there’sUnicorn Mountain!
Mystic Meadows certainly knows how to commit to a theme.
We cross a wooden bridge, the tires of my truck rumbling over the worn planks. Below us, a creek snakes through the landscape, leading toward a waterfall in the distance.
I glance down, expecting to see glistening water.
Instead, I see sludge.
