“Cedric darling” was, supposedly, the town’s self-appointed spectral historian, who kept the town, as Luna said, historically honest. From where Wren stood, Cedric looked suspiciously like …nothing. Just a draft, a shadow, a trick of the light.
“Yes, sweetie, of course I want to know why the mayor challenged the town’s barber to a waltz-off in front of the town hall in nineteen-twelve, but not now, okay? I’m catching up with Wren. No, don’t flounce away…” Luna sighed. “God, he’ssodramatic.”
Pot, kettle, pitch-black. Could she roll her eyes any harder? Wren didn’t think so.
“Let’s talk about you, Wren. Why on earth did you say no to that gorgeous creature? That hair! Those eyes! That six-pack.”
Luna rested her butt against the counter and crossed her ankles. Wren presumed she was talking about Kyro. What few people, including Luna, didn’t know, was that beneath the styled hair and cool clothes, Kyro was a moderately good-looking, slightly skinny guy—that six-pack had more to do with contouring than crunches. When she compared him to Hot Doc… No, that wasn’t fair.
But damn, Dr. Dane Trafford, smart and sexy, left a hell of an impression. And she hadn’t figured out how to stop thinking about him yet.
Wren tightened her grip on her mug and shrugged. Notwanting to talk about Kyro, because there wasn’t much to say—fling, failed livestream proposal, universal trolling—she changed the subject.
“So, I met an interesting guy today,” she said, filling a pot with water. Great. Now she was talking about him. All hope for her was gone—and she’d placed him on Luna’s witchy radar. Poor guy.
“Mmm?”
“I met him in Spirited Grounds. He’s renting a cottage on Lake Drive for the summer. Earl and Marigold put on a show, and I explained the town’s dynamics to him. He’s a trauma surgeon… He said something about working in disaster zones.”
Luna lifted one thin eyebrow and sat up straight. “Now, that’s interesting. So what is he doing in H-Town?”
“Unlike you, I don’t interrogate people, Luna.”
“I failed in my training,” Luna replied, her eyes narrowing. “A trauma surgeon, you say? Maybe he’s here looking for a change of pace.”
Wren recognized that look; Luna’d grabbed on to an idea she liked. Possibly even loved. “Uh … what are you thinking?” she asked, a little scared.
“Dr. Morris wants to retire, but I won’t let him until we find someone to buy his practice. H-Town cannot be without a doctor.”
Morrigan yawned, supremely bored by the problems of this lesser, stupider, species.
Luna could go from zero to a hundred in a second flat. “Whoa! Firstly, the guy is taking a vacation, he didn’t say anything about a career change. Secondly, he could be a really bad doctor, or surgeon, or whatever. Thirdly, you arenotGod!”
“No, I’m a goddess, and they are far more powerful,” Luna replied, completely serious. “I’ll have to give this more thought.”
Wren sighed and mentally apologized to Dane for putting him in Luna’s crosshairs.
“Talking about your men”—good grief, Luna made it sound like she had a different one every night!—“when last did you talk to Alex?”
“It’s been about a year,” she replied, her heartbeat speeding up as she wondered where Luna was going with this line of questioning. Everyone knew Alex was not a topic she enjoyed discussing.
“That was a very careful response. And when last did Alex speak toyou? I bet it was a lot more recently than that.”
Wren looked at her phone sitting on the counter next to Luna’s elbow, and suspicion bloomed. Morrigan hopped from Luna’s lap to the counter and pawed her phone. She’d left it there to go to the bathroom earlier… Had a message popped up, and had Luna read it? Alex checked in with her every couple of months or so. She’d yet to reply to any of his many, many text messages.
Luna’s eyes darted to her phone, and Wren lunged for it, scooping it up. Luna glared at Morrigan. “Snitch,” she muttered. Morrigan gave her a low and slow blink, his version of the middle finger.
Wren swiped her screen, and there, above the picture of her and Poppy as teenagers, was a message.
Hey, Wren. I really need to talk to you. Personal, not business. Call me, okay?
She’d heard that he and Jess were getting married in a couple of months. A little less than a year ago, back when she still believed in love, Wren had gathered her courage and told him how she felt about him, that she thought they could be amazing together, if he gave them a chance. He’d told her he was in love with Jess and couldn’t see her as anything more than a friend, his verybestfriend.
Embarrassed, hurt, and a little heartbroken, she’d retreated. Stopped answering his calls and left his messages unread. It had been—still was—easier that way.
At this point, they hadn’t communicated for eight, no, nine months. Yet, here he was, reaching out. Wanting to talk to her about something that wasn’t dance related. Her internal fire alarm started blaring. That couldn’t be good.
Shit.
