Amy took our apparent interest as an invitation to launch into a whole soliloquy about the origin of his name—how his great-great-grandfather had made it up by mashing four words together, and how it’d been passed down for generations—and Bryce and I continued eating and generally not giving a shit until, finally, the king interrupted Amy. “We must discuss the matter of the Chosen One.” He carefully looked at the space between Bryce and me, as though sensing one of us would use his eye contact as proof we were who he referred to when he saidChosen One.
“After some consideration,” the king said, “I agree there can only be one. It is important to determine who the gods sent to lead us so we know which of these complete strangers we should follow without question to our possible deaths.”
There wasn’t one ounce of irony in his voice, and the dinner guests expressed their agreement in hushed, earnest tones. It was a bit strange. Like everyone was a caricature of what fantasy people should be like. But who was I to question fantasy worlds? It wasn’t as though I frequented them. If I was happy to believe that I had truly been transported to a magical world through a portal, I guessed I could also accept that maybe the fantasy people in my books were more accurate than I’d ever given them credit for.
“What do you propose?” Amy asked, jowls wobbling.
“We will train them each as though they are both the Chosen Ones,” said the king. “They will train for three days, after which we will hold a tournament where they will compete for the title, then save us from whatever great evil is approaching.”
That got my attention.“Three days?”
The king nodded, oblivious to my tone. “We’ll test your skills in three categories to ensure you can keep our people safe—magical aptitude, hand-to-hand combat, and jousting.”
The visiting princess—who I had forgotten was there in the first place—bounced in her chair as soon as the king stopped talking. “Might we have a ball?”
“I don’t see why not,” the king said. “We’ll make a day of it.”
Light gasps and low murmurs filled the room as the nobles expressed their delight.
“You guys don’t have much going on here for entertainment, do you?” I asked.
Bryce choked beside me.
“Quite the contrary.” Amy blinked his watery blue eyes owlishly. “There was the shaming today and the great famine in theeast; that’s been going on for quite some time. Not to mention the Chosen One and the Evil One—whoever they may be—and—”
Everyone began to talk about history and languages and kingdoms. Names were dropped, wars referenced, family trees traced back to the dawn of time. Seemingly every random tidbit about the world was described for no reason. At one point, a duke started spouting myths about gods. When he went on to mention oregano had been banished from the land because of its usage in the dark arts, I checked corners for hidden cameras. There were none, which was unfortunate because I’d never been so bored. It reminded me of corporate meetings. God, I didn’t miss those.
Something bumped my leg.
I glanced down. A cell phone, of all things, shone up at me. Bryce nudged me with his phone again, so I slid it onto my lap, shielding the glow under the table. There was no service, but his Notes app was open, and he’d written:
This dinner party blows almost as hard as your mom.
I was so relieved to see him return to his normal variety of insults that a surprised laugh threatened to gurgle free. Though I was still annoyed with him for what he’d said in our yard, I felt myself softening. He didn’t ask to be dragged here on his birthday. It wasn’t his fault fate had blessed him and not me, although I was determined to prove fate wrong.
I hid my mirth behind a smirk as I wrote back:
This whole conversation is about as relevant as you are.
I passed the message as Bryce pushed back from the table, jaw flexing as he finished chewing red meat course number twenty-seven. His hand grazed mine as he took his phone. A little zing shot through my stomach, the sort of thrill that only came from passing notes and sharing secrets and… flirting.
We weren’t flirting. We were neighbors who hated each other, and rightfully so. The dinner party was boring; that was all.Nobody usedyour mamajokes to flirt. Besides, Bryce was too timid to intentionally flirt. He probably didn’t even knowhowto make a move without being an awkward mess about it.
One time, I’d gone to my window because I’d heard him at his door accepting a pizza delivery. The driver was trying to flirt by starting up the old pineapple-on-pizza conversation, and he’d just looked at her cluelessly and told her the pineapple-on-pizza debate was a tired argument that nobody really cared about anymore.
The statement made me realize Bryce was more of a stick-in-the-mud than I’d ever realized, so I ordered him a pineapple pizza every night for a week afterward, hoping he’d realize heshouldhave a stance on the matter (and that stance should be decidedly pro-pineapple). The fact I’d bought the pizza from a different company than the one the flirtatious delivery driver worked for was only because the other brand carried a superior pineapple pizza that would be sure to convince Bryce to care deeply about fruit-on-pizza rights.
I jumped as Bryce bumped my knee with his knuckle, handing the phone back. He raised a brow, sapphire eyes flickering in the candlelight. He had devastatingly pretty eyes that he in no way deserved. Yet another way the universe had favored him and not me. They were wasted on him. Seclusive cave-dwelling creatures were supposed to be pasty, hideous, and blob-like. They were not supposed to look this good in a cravat.
Flustered for no good reason, I took the phone. It was warm from his body heat. I wasn’t sure why I noticed that, or why holding his phone felt weirdly intimate.
His text read:
Considering your allergy to work, the healthiest option for you is to go home now. I’ve never ridden a horse, but when it comes to wielding a large shaft of wood, my skill is unmatched.
My skin flushed, my heart quickening. Okay. So maybe I waswrong. Maybe Bryce was just particular about who he flirtedwith. But why me? Why now?
It had to be an intimidation tactic. Saving face, I rolled my eyes and texted back:
