“Tonight,” I sputter. “At a club he told me last week that heco-owns. Because apparently the universe didn’t think this situation was destabilizing enough.”
Half of me hopes he cancels.
The other half would be crushed if he did.
Gemma leans casually against the cocktail table. “So go.”
“I can’t justgo,” I hiss, arms flailing. “I’ve only seen his face on a screen and talked to him through an app. What if none of it’s real?”
Even as the words leave my mouth, I wince. The irony that I’ve spent the last half hour defending the very real, extremely valid, definitely-not-a-catfish existence of Declan Thorne like I was his personal publicist is not lost on me.
Gemma’s smile is amused, a little smug. “Or what if he’s emotionally available and no longer wants to hide in your DMs?”
Without thinking, I unglue my hand from my juice bottle reach inside my purse. “Let’s see what the universe has to say, shall we?”
“You don’t need to outsource your decision-making to the universe. You are capable of figuring out what to do on your own.”
“I know that.” But I’m already elbow deep in my purse, rifling through its contents like a witchy Mary Poppins. “I’m just looking for, you know,clarity—”
“Zero risk.”
We both say it at the same time.
“Potato, potahto,” I chirp and pull out my Break Glass in Case of Emotional Instability kit: travel-sized tarot deck, affirmation flashcards, a bottle of rosemary and lavender room cleanser, and a rose quartz stone the size of a chicken nugget are just the highlights.
Gemma eyes the cards warily. “You better be careful with those.”
“This night can’t get any worse.”
She inhales deeply through her nose, and that feeling washes over me again. Like she knows something. Likeshe knows—
“Gemma!” Alder weaves through the crowd beside us, straightening his tux as he flashes a grin that could fund a small country. “So sorry to interrupt,” he says smoothly. “There are a few donors I’d love for you to meet before the auction starts.”
Gemma’s gaze flicks from him to the cards spread on the table. “Don’t even think about touching those until I’m back,” she warns, giving my arm a pointed squeeze. “Promise?”
“Promise, weirdo.”
She narrows her eyes, unconvinced. “I’m serious, Amanda.”
“Okay, okay, I won’t.” I kiss her cheek. “Now go be Ms. Billionaire.”
Alder takes her hand in his, and moments later they’re lost inside the glittering crowd.
As soon as they disappear, I let out a slow breath and glance down at the cards. My fingers twitch toward the deck despite her warning. They’re just harmless cards. More habit than actual belief. One of those little buffers I use to keep the mess hidden.
“I just need a sign,” I murmur. “A tiny push in the right direction. And I am not doing this to outsource my decision-making.”
A woman draped in silver satin glides past, pearls swinging at her throat, and shoots me a look like it’s abnormal for well-adjusted people do tarot readings in the middle of fancy charity galas to prove they’re on the right path.
I give her my brightest smile, snag another champagne flute as a waiter drifts by, and down half the glass in asingle gulp before turning back to the cards.
“Okay, universe,” I exhale and whisper to the cards. “Could this thing with Declan Thorne be real, or is this just another fantasy I’ve gotten too attached to?”
I flutter my fingers over the tarot deck, eyes half closed, waiting for the tiny tug that’s supposed to mean intuition but probably just means my brain likes patterns. When it finds me, I draw.
The Wheel of Fortune.
I stare down at it, unimpressed. “Wow. Shocking.” I roll my eyes. “This is the fifth time I’ve drawn this card this week.”
