Page 4 of Fate's Sweetest Curse
“Itisnice to see you, Peach,” Noble said, that cruel and lovely mouth biting into my old nickname like the fruit it represented. “Even if I’m not happy about it.”
The reference took me back to summer mornings racing through the orchards, hot afternoons picnicking by the river, and sticky evenings sneaking Noble onto my balcony to snack on sugared peaches.
But those days were long gone. A faded dream.
His hand fell, and he turned away, walking back down the dock.
It took me several heartbeats to recover. To call after him. “Where are you staying?”
He swiveled. “The Pretty Porcupine?”
“Possum,” I corrected. “You can’t stay there.”
“Why not?”
I met him at the base of the dock. “I live there. Tend bar there. It’s my friend’s place. You can’t stay.”
He regarded me like he was doing math in his head, calculating how I’d gone from the girl I’d been to the woman before him. “You’re too talented to tend bar.”
The comment was irrelevant. Insulting. “Oh, but being a random mayor’s wife was just right?” I retorted. “Hosting tedious social gatherings only to get shoved and struck after everyone went home?”
“Hedidn’t,” Noble said darkly, scarred knuckles paling as his fists clenched.
“He did,” I stated flatly. “At least here, I have safety. Autonomy. People who love me.”
“Hattie—”
“The next time you want to compliment me, don’t put down the one place that welcomed me when no one else would.”
Noble’s throat bobbed, and he nodded.
“And if you’re going to live here,” I went on, “let’s get one thing straight: you don’t know anything about me anymore. I’m a different person now.”
He huffed a harsh, joyless laugh. “Keep telling yourself that.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
For a moment, he looked like he’d hedge—the younger version of him probably would have—but adult Noble was…maybe notunrestrained, but definitelysharper. Colder. “It means I can still read you like one of your cherished alchemy books. It’s plain as day on that pretty face of yours: you still love me.”
The taunting words hit like physical blows.
You.
Still.
Love.
Me.
My infatuation had never been a secret, but he’d been less of a prick about it when we were adolescents.
I forced a laugh, even though I felt like a bug trapped inside a small glass jar. “Seems you still think too highly of yourself.”
His lips pulled into that smug smile, even as his eyes pinched. “You know that’s not true, either.” He invaded my personal space again. “Whatever fond memory you have of me,” he murmured, “that boy is gone. Do us both a favor and forget him.”
I scowled. “Happy to.”
“Good girl.” He stepped back, about to leave.
