A soft thump lands on the stool beside me. A tiny gray kitten mews, tail flicking, golden eyes round and warm.
“Hello, Ash.” The kitten presses his head into my palm, purring like a motorboat, jellybean paws kneading my thigh. Then he turns to Declan, hisses, arches his back, and leaps from the stool to tear off into the living room.
I laugh. “He likes me better.”
“Of course he does,” Declan mutters and refills his wineglass with a rich Silver Oak cab.
“But I do miss Fennel. I keep thinking I feel him right behind me. Like a phantom limb.”
Declan pours me a glass and slides it across the counter. “I’m sure he and Cinder are somewhere in Wands living it up.”
I exit out of all the tabs cluttering my screen, take a deep breath, and close the computer. “It feels so good to let all that go.”
“I bet.” The pan Declan’s holding sizzles, and he flicks his wrist. The pancake soars up, flips over, and lands back in the skillet. “Now…”
“Now I’m going to finish my outline and start writing.”
Since I’ve been back—and after a long talk with Gemma and Alder, er,Alderic—I’ve officially found myself and my true calling. I’m putting my editorial and storytelling skills to use and am writing a book. A memoir. Sort of. But dressed up as a cheeky fantasy romance, because no one wants to read the raw confessions of anot-famous woman. Honestly, not many people want to read the confessions of a famous one.
“Good girl.” He winks and takes a sip from the wineglass in his other hand. Standing barefoot in jeans and a long-sleeve black shirt, pan in one hand, glass of wine in the other, he looks like the ad for a cooking show no one asked for but everyone would watch.
“I really hate that Gemma taught you all those book tropes.” My cheeks heat despite myself. “And I don’t know if I would have decided to move in if I knew how much you like breakfast for dinner.”
His phone buzzes against the counter. He glances at the screen, grimaces, then answers. “Dad, what can I do for you?”
Even from the other side of the island, I can hear his father’s anger boil over with words likeirresponsible,disgrace,reckless.
Declan rolls his shoulders, sets the pan down, and leans back against the counter. “When you want to have a real conversation, you can call me back.”
He ends the call with one efficient tap.
“I’m sorry.” I slide off the barstool and wrap my arms around him. “That was…”
“A long time coming,” he says. His jaw is tight, but his eyes soften when they find mine. “He’ll live. So will I.”
“I’m proud of you. Of us.” I reach for my glass of wine to make a toast to our growth, separately and collectively, lift it too quickly, and slosh crimson across my bandaged hand. “Shit.”
I slip out of Declan’s arm and head for the sink. The wine has soaked through, ruining the gauze. I tug at the tape with my teeth and peel the wrappings back. Declanjoins me, sleeves shoved to his elbows as he washes his hands, ready to assist.
My stomach twists. I don’t want to see my raw, red healing skin. It’s bad enough when Declan helps me clean my wounds and apply medicated ointment throughout the day. Although, I am lucky I don’t have to have skin grafts.
The gauze tears away in strips, and with it, bits of me. I suck in a breath, ready for the sight of ruined flesh. Except the skin beneath isn’t torn. It isn’t even healing. It gleams.
Rubies stud the curve of my palm and fingers, catching the kitchen light and splintering it into shards of red across the ceiling.
Declan goes very still. “Whoa. That looks like—”
“Fortune.”
Water hisses out of the faucet, forgotten gauze clumping in the drain as I stare at my hand like it belongs to someone else. I flex my fingers, and the stones shift with me. We’re fused. They’re a part of me now.
Smoke tinges the air, and I whirl around wide-eyed, my heartbeat roaring in my ears. Then the smoke alarm shrieks.
Declan swears, rushes for the stove, and kills the burner. The pancake is scorched, blackened at the edges.
“Shit, Declan—” I swat at him as he darts past me to open a window.
“Sorry, sorry.”
