“Holy shit, Maggie.”
His heartbeat couldn’t lie, she realized. She didn’t doubt the way Arthur reacted to her when she could hear it so clearly in his chest, just like she had on Beltane.
“And then, when I woke up in our office, I remembered everything. But I couldn’t think straight. I could barely walk. I haven’t even really thought about what all this means. And there he was, taking care of me. Making sure I took my medicine.” Maggie’s voice cracked. Gods below, she was so sick of crying. “He called my best friend to make sure I stayed alive.”
“Why do you sound so sad, Mags?”
“That’s too much!” Maggie’s head was pounding. “We aren’t even friends. We barely like each other!”
“Maggie,” she said gently. “Men who do not like you don’t tuck you under a blanket and get you glasses of water or call your best friend to take care of you. They don’t worry about you or carry you to safety. They don’t leave their tweed jackets behind.” Dahlia nodded to a spot on the arm of the couch behind Maggie.
Maggie whipped around, nearly spilling her coffee. Folded neatly on the back of the couch was the tweed jacket she’d had wrapped around her when she woke up in their office. A clearmemory of her asking if she could keep it returned to her and her cheeks reddened, but she grabbed it and brought it to her lap. “This doesn’t mean anything.”
“Sure. None of it means anything.” Dahlia rolled her eyes. “Don’t lie to me, Maggie Linden. More importantly, don’t lie to yourself.”
Maggie shook her head. “He doesn’t remember the kiss. He just knows that it would be bad form to let his office mate perish in a pall he created in the first place.”
“How can you be sure he doesn’t remember?”
“If he remembers, he didn’t tell me. And the only reason he wouldn’t tell me is because he wished it hadn’t happened in the first place.”
“Hmm,” Dahlia said in that annoying, knowing way she had. “And why do you think you, of all the people in the linguistics and runology departments, were chosen to be his office mate?”
“It was random.”
Dahlia actually laughed at that. “You told me Dean Clearwater offered him an office in Ferox Hall. What sounds better? Your own private office in boring, stuffy Ferox Hall, or a damp, glorified closet with a hot linguist?” Maggie groaned. This conversation was not going how she wanted. “I’m just being honest! You think he didn’t have something to do with that decision? Dean Clearwater would give that man anything he wanted, including the exact office mate he requested.” She paused. “Would it be so awful?”
“Being sold out by Dean Clearwater to keep Arthur Taliesin happy? Yes,” she retorted.
“No, you dumbass, having a summer fling with Arthur Taliesin.”
Maggie sat up. “Whoa.” She held out her hands. “When did we start talking about summer flings? The man smiled at me a couple of times. He lent me his jacket because I was delusional with pall sickness and cold.”
“And you danced with him under the stars and had one of the best kisses of your life…”
“You’re reaching.”
“Am I?”
“I don’t date coworkers. Not anymore. You know that.”
Dahlia sighed, leaning back against the arm of the couch. She took a sip of her coffee, looking at Maggie over the edge of the mug, but Maggie couldn’t meet her gaze. Dahlia’s voice was very gentle as she said carefully, “Stop letting Evan ruin your life. He’s not worth it. He never has been.”
Maggie wished she could hear his name and not feel that creeping vine of self-doubt and rage crawl across her skin, but it was still there. Perhaps its thorns were not quite so sharp, but it still pricked. Evan, who had once been Maggie’s everything. Evan, whom she had once been so sure she’d marry. Evan, whom, it turned out, she had never known at all.
“I can’t go through that again.” She hated how small she still felt when she talked about Evan and what he did to her.
“I can guarantee that if Arthur Taliesin did half of what Evan did to you, we would all burn him at the stake.” The anger in Dahlia’s voice was sharp and well worn. “We wouldn’t let him get away with it like your so-called friends and mentors did back then.”
Maggie knew that things would have been different if she’d had Dahlia Hawberry on her side back then. Sometimes, when the burning shame of what happened creeped up her neck, she imagined exactly what she’d say to Evan now. And when that didn’t work to soothe her, she’d imagine what Dahlia would say to him, every curse she’d put upon his head, and it made everything a little bit easier to bear.
“Stop letting that sorry excuse for a man ruin your happiness.”
Maggie traced the pattern in the tweed. “You think Arthur will make me happy?” She looked up at her friend, wanting Dahlia to tell her it was a terrible idea. No, she wanted Dahlia to tell her Arthur was madly in love with her. She didn’t know what she wanted at all.
Dahlia shrugged, a small smile tugging up the corners of her lips. “I can’t know that, but neither can you.”
“I hate it when you’re logical,” Maggie said, burrowing beneath her blanket and resting her head on the arm of the couch.
