Page 24 of Star-Crossed
Together, they gathered the broken pots and spilled soil, carefully scooping the remnants into one of the half-empty moving boxes that were scattered around Lyra’s cluttered room.
“All right,” she said, pressing her lips together as she surveyed the aftermath. “I think that’s everything.”
“Great,” Cy responded, forcing a stiff smile. He hoisted the box under his arm, trying to ignore the lingering warmth from where their fingers had touched in the hand-off. “I’ll get these guys all fixed up and bring them back tomorrow.”
“Sounds good,” Lyra agreed, her voice slightly strained. They walked together to the front door, each step heavy with unspoken strain.
“Goodnight, Cy,” she said softly as she held the door open for him, her smile polite, but distant.
“‘Night, Lyra,” he replied, stepping out into the cool evening air. Their gazes locked for a brief, charged moment before he turned and walked away, the box of broken plants cradled in his arms.
As Cy made his way back to his truck, he couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that he might have made a colossal mistake.
“Damn it, Larry,” he muttered, the weight of his uncertainty settling heavily on his shoulders as the truck roared into the lonely night.
FIVE
Spell
A VERBAL FORMULA BELIEVED TO HAVE MAGICAL FORCE
A week later
Shit.
It was both a curse and an enterprise.
An enterprise because Myrtle LeGrande was the owner of Fertile Myrtle’s Manure, and she was the one hosting this Sunday brunch.
And a curse because Lyra had obviously misunderstood the assignment…
She’d turned onto the winding dirt road leading to Vee and Myrtle’s, a charming, ramshackle house nestled in a sun-dappled forest clearing. As her Jetta bumped along the uneven gravel, she clutched the bottle of Veuve Clicquot she’d brought to what she’dassumedto be a lovely, low-key brunch with her favorite septuagenarian couple.
But as the house came into view through a copse of trees, Lyra’s smile inverted, and her stomach tried to crawl into her colon.
A dozen cars were parked haphazardly around the yard, and she could hear raucous laughter and the shrieks of children drifting through the open windows.
Ugh. Kids.
She needed at least an hour more in a day to prepare herself for interactions with sticky, noisy sociopaths with no respect for couture.
She smoothed down her fitted sundress and worried over her strappy sandals. So much for a lively chat in the rose garden.
Maybe she could back quietly out of the driveway and make up some bullshit excuse about how she was allergic to anyone under eleven?
The arched oak door flung open to present Vee Prescott in an eye-melting orange caftan somehow lent elegance by her flowy, effortless glamour and helmet of platinum hair.
“Lyra, darling, you’re just in time!” Sheclop-cloppeddown the lilac-strewn lane in canvas wedge heels that would make a pole dancer worry over ankle safety. “We’re celebrating Jose’s adoption. He’s officially a Forrester now!” She waved an errant spatula at a dark-haired boy of about seven chasing a tabby cat around the corner of the house.
Forrester? The Forresters were here?
Fuck.
Fuckity fuck fuck.
Lyra held up the champagne. “Sounds like a reason to celebrate.”
And bycelebrateshe meantdrink.
