Page 23 of Scattered Glitter

We start walking away from the house, and there’s this electricity in the air between us.

I don’t know if he feels it, too, but I sure as hell hope he does.

“Let me see the watch,” I demand, nodding toward his wrist.

I need to see it to believe it.

He throws me a grin, the kind that’s all confidence and mischief, and slowly pulls back the sleeve of his leather jacket. The gold Rolex is as obnoxiously shiny as it is undeniably impressive.

“Oh, this old thing?” he says as if he hasn’t been waiting for this moment to show it off.

I bite back the urge to let out an impressed whistle and shrug instead. “Seen better.”

“Uh-huh. Sure you have.” His smirk deepens, clearly not buying my attempt at indifference. “How’s school been this week?” he asks, shifting gears like he’s not revealing that I’m trying too hard to play it cool.

“Already texted you everything. I hate it there.” I kick a pebble down the sidewalk to distract myself from the fact that I can’t stop sneaking glances at him. We texted the whole week, almost constantly, but today is the first time I’ve seen him again.

“Yeah, that’s why I dropped out.” He chuckles, and the sound sends a tingle down my spine. “Didn’t see the point in wasting my time on something that wasn’t gonna get me anywhere.”

“So, what are you doing now, then?” He still hasn’t told me, and I’m dying to know.

Ace shrugs, his hands still tucked into his jacket pockets. “Learning the family business.”

“What’s the family business?”

He grins a secretive smile that makes me want to lean in closer. “Let’s just say my old man’s good at making people believe things that aren’t real. I’m gonna be better than him, though. The best in Vegas.”

“Why Vegas? Best in Phoenix isn’t good enough?”

“City of sin and magic, Trouble.” His grin widens, and he steps closer, his shoulder brushing against mine. “That place is built on illusions, and I’m kind of an illusionist when you think about it, maybe even a mentalist.”

I laugh, the sound coming out a little breathless. He’s so close I can smell his cologne—something woodsy and dark mixed with a faint hint of smoke. “You mean you’re a con artist.”

He grins, eyes glinting. “Tomato, To-mah-to.”

“You’re so full of shit.” I laugh, shaking my head.

He closes the tiny gap between us, and my breath catches in my throat once again. My pulse is racing so loud I swear he can hear it, and I’m torn between pulling back and leaning into him.

Then, suddenly, he moves so quickly I barely see it. In the blink of an eye, his hand opens, revealing a metal matchbook gleaming in his palm.

It’smymatchbook, the one I always carry in my pocket with the embossed Mustang on the cover.

The one they told me belonged to my father.

“How did you…” I trail off, looking up at him, but the words die on my lips. I reach for it, trying to snatch it back, but he pulls his hand away and steps back, holding it above my head, barely out of reach, a playful grin on his lips. “Give itback,” I demand, sharper than I mean it to, but that matchbook is more than a talisman. It’s the only piece I have from the parents I’ve never known.

“Easy, Trouble,” he teases. “I was only borrowing it.” Ace’s smile softens, and he hands it back, his fingers brushing against mine.“Take out a match for me.” I’m caught off guard by the sudden shift, but I do as he asks. I’m about to strike it against the side like I’ve done a thousand times when his hand covers mine. “Wait.” He takes the match from me with a deft flick of his wrist and holds it up between us. “Blow on it.”

“Why?”

“Trust me,” he presses, his voice a gentle challenge. “Give me your fire, Trouble.”

I roll my eyes but blow on the match, and it bursts into flame out of nowhere, flickering brightly between us, bathing his face in an orange light.

Holy. Shit.

Ace flips his hand, and the match is gone, replaced by a playing card—the ace of hearts. The corner of the card catches fire, burning slowly in his hand, and I stare, completely flabbergasted.

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