Page 58

He just stares at me for a moment, eyes searching my face.

Then says, in a completely guileless way, “And yet you cried out.”

I swear, after he has said this, I scramble so hard I sprain something.

“I was just startled.”

“You were shivering.”

“That must have been the wind.”

“It felt as if you had a fever.”

Because I did, I almost answer. But I managed to stuff it back down. “Well, as you can see I’m fine. Now, how about we move on to more important matters,” I say, as breezily as I can manage when my face is a four-alarm fire. Worse: I can see he wants to protest at the end of it.

His tongue touches his teeth, he raises a finger.

I have to sweep past him and into the living room, just to stop him seeing guilt all over my face. Then when he follows me, I don’t hesitate. I point to the book I’ve just opened on the table. “Put your hand on this page, and it’ll tell us every spell that is brewing inside that body of yours,” I say, nice and brusque.

But he just looks at me all soft and earnest.

“And you are sure you wish to know? There is still time to turn back.”

“I don’t need time. I am fine with this. In fact, maybe it’s you who isn’t.”

“One look in my eyes should tell you all you need to know on that score.”

He’s right, too. It does. He is absolutely rock solid on the idea that the book will reveal the memory spell, and nothing more. And so much so that I find myself holding my breath when he reaches out a hand. I actually think about going to stop him—though as soon as he touches down on the page I know that it isn’t fear of him being really and truly in love with me that has me scared.

It’s the idea that he isn’t.

That it’s all just a spell, and all the mixed-up things I’m feeling will all be in vain.

Because I do know I’m feeling them. I can sense them brewing, I know it. Don’t, I almost say. Just don’t, let’s not find out. But then I remember the sort of person that would make me, wanting him tricked or bespelled into wanting to be with me. And I just can’t. I close my eyes and wait instead. Breath held, body trembling, every bit of me waiting to see what will win.

Sad, gray reality.

Or something more.

Please be something more, I think.

Though, god, it still shocks me to my core when he whispers in my ear:

“I told you so.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

I don’t mean to shut myself in the bathroom. It just sort of happens, in the aftermath of him saying an I told you so that somehow sounded impossibly romantic. I’m still swooning after ten minutes of standing in a cold shower, completely clothed. And I did have to be completely clothed, too.

Nudity just felt as if it might make things worse.

The very last thing I need is to have any physical contact with my still-blushing-all-over body. Next thing you know I’ll be imagining him being the one making said contact.

After all, there’s nothing standing in the way of that now. He actually has feelings for me, I actually have some kind of feelings for him, and neither of us apparently gives a fuck that we were once enemies.

In fact, all my memories of how enemied we were are starting to get real weird in my head. I scrabble for them, every time all these inexplicable feelings rise up. And they just seem to slide away from me. They disappear into the distance, getting fainter and fainter and stranger and stranger, until I’m not sure what they even were. Even recent things—like when he grabbed me on the stairs.

Did he grab me?