Page 18 of Not Exactly a Small-Town Romance

She takes the top card from the lower half and opens her eyes.

“This is it,” she says. “My message from the universe as I plan for my great journey.” She flips it over and lets out a gasp.

I lunge forward, imagining the Grim Reaper or some other harbinger of death. “What is it?”

She shows me a card with two people, each holding a yellow goblet. A lion head with wings floats above them. “It’s the Two of Cups.”

That doesn’t seem bad. “What does it mean?” I ask.

“It’s the card of commitment, of relationships. It can stand for true love.” She clasps it to her chest like a treasured gift. “That means the fortune teller was right. My faith will never wither.”

Her happiness at getting that card should have silenced the alarm bells in my head. She’s clearly doing what she wants.

But my sense of unease only grows as she tucks the card, face up, at the top of her box and packs it into the suitcase at her feet.

I hope I haven’t inadvertently set her up to believe in something that might bring her nothing but disappointment and misery.

Chapter 7

KELSEYASKS, “WHATWOULDREESEDO?”

The Thursday morning I take off across the US of A is bright and sunshiny.

It’s perfect.

I double-check with Jester to be sure that Desdemona is headed for the airport, then leave LA on I-15 toward Vegas. I’m not going anywhere near there, though. For someone trying to find a small-town romance after leaving a big, jaded city, Las Vegas would be going from the fire into an inferno. I’ll pop southeast and drive near the Hoover Dam instead.

I sing to Taylor Swift and Beyoncé until I have to stop to charge my hybrid.

Thankfully, I’m parked when the Demon makes her first call. She’s in the executive lounge waiting for her flight to France.

“Kelsey, send Drake Underwood the headshots for Caleb Jonas and Salena Cole.”

My body goes still. Not this director! My voice is more tremulous than I like when I ask, “For which project?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. The one he hired us for.”

She meansLimited Fate.

“Isn’t Caleb outside the age range? The script called for—”

Her voice slices through mine. “I’m not interested in your opinion. Send their agents the script and prep them for self-tapes. Be subtle. Caleb in particular might not appreciate direction.”

I’m so choked up about how wrong those two are for that beautiful movie that I can’t even answer.

“I expect an update when I land.” Desdemona ends the call.

I drop the phone in the passenger seat and scream, “No! No! No!”

A truck driver walking past pauses to watch.

My face flushes. I wave him on.

Unless this is a meet-cute. I didn’t put “distressed damsel” on my list, but it fits in with the rescue trope.

He tilts his head as if he’s considering checking on me. Tall, fit, dressed in jeans (faded Levi’s, probably slightly vintage, $35, and a polo, possibly Walmart, $15).

I’m about to open the door to dramatically sob by my car door when a bit of gold flashes on his hand.

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