Page 68 of Monster Among the Roses (Fairy Tale Quartet 1)

“Oh! I know who said that.” Isobel brightened. “It was Martin Luther King, Jr.” She smiled over at me. “I wrote a paper about him in high school.”

I nodded, putting the truck into park and killing the engine. Silence and then darkness greeted us as I turned off the headlights. In the fading daylight, you could barely make out the graffiti on the wall.

“I wonder which fairy tale that couple’s supposed to be,” I mused aloud, still studying the artwork.

Isobel turned to me, blinking. “You can’t tell?”

“What? You can?”

Her smile was a pure tease and absolutely stunning. Instead of answering me, she said, “I have a present for you.”

I blinked. “You do?” Then I laughed and shook my head. “Why?”

She shrugged, looking embarrassed and abashed as she tugged a small box from her purse. “It’s nothing fancy. Just a…a thank-you gift, if you will?”

“Thank you?” I murmured, growing intrigued. “What am I being thanked for?”

“For being you. For being kind to me when I didn’t deserve it. For showing me not everyone cares so much about appearances. For showing me the world isn’t such an awful place after all. For making me want to live again.”

My lips parted. “Isobel,” I whispered, speechless and dazed. “I…” I started to shake my head, unable to take credit for so much. It didn’t seem possible I could make that big of an impact on anyone’s life. But from the way she was looking at me, I couldn’t deny the possibility either.

Overwhelmed to learn I’d influenced her that much, I blew out a hard, bracing breath, trying to keep myself together.

Isobel misconstrued my reaction completely, though. She probably thought I didn’t feel the same about her or something, but she muttered, “You’re right,” and started to shove the box back into her purse. “I don’t know what I was thinking. This was stupid and silly. I shouldn’t—”

“No!” I covered her hand with mine to stop her from withdrawing. When she fell quiet and peeked up from frightened blue eyes, I slowly opened her hand and took the box from her palm.

“Thank you,” I said meaningfully before I dropped my gaze and slipped off the lid. The case looked as if it would hold a piece of jewelry, but when I peered inside the only thing that peered back was myself, in the reflection of a small p

ocket mirror.

It looked old and well used. Knowing there had to be a story behind it, I drew it out carefully and shifted my thumb over the clouded glass before lifting my face.

“Who did it belong to?”

As if transfixed by the looking glass, Isobel blinked, her gaze reflecting beauty and yet pain. Then her eyes lifted to mine. “My mother. It was one of the few things we saved from the fire that belonged to her. She’d had it tucked away in the family safe along with some pictures my father later framed and hung on the wall in his office. But this…this was the only real thing that was left of hers.”

I sucked in a breath. “Oh, Isobel, no.” I pressed the mirror back into her hand. “This is important to you. It’s priceless. I don’t deserve something so special.”

She just stared at me, her lips beginning to tremble. “It is special,” she agreed, “and important, and priceless.” Her voice then went so low I had to strain to hear her confession as she added, “Which is exactly why I want you to have it.”

With my heart expanding two sizes too big for my chest, I folded my hand over hers, trapping the miniature mirror between our fingers. “Are you sure?”

She nodded. “I wouldn’t want anyone else to have it. And I thought…” She drew in a deep breath before continuing. “I thought that whenever you were sad, or in pain, or it felt as if everything was wrong and ugly in the world, you could just look in here, see yourself, and know there’s still beauty left, something worth living for. Because that’s what you’ve done for me, just by being you. You’ve made me want to live again.”

I floundered.

Nothing I could say in return would ever measure up to that. And I didn’t even want to. I just wanted to live in that moment where someone thought I was something.

Eyes growing damp, I blinked repeatedly before spilling out a rusty laugh. “Whoa,” I said before leaning toward her and pressing my brow to hers. Then I interlaced our fingers around the mirror.

“No one’s ever made me feel the way you do,” I admitted.

Her gaze lifted. “Same here.”

With a groan, I disconnected our foreheads so I could slant my mouth across hers. She opened up to me, slipping her tongue around mine and clutching the front of my shirt in her fist as I circled the back of her neck with my free hand and sank my fingers into her hair.

Without looking at what I was doing, I placed the mirror into the cup holder in the center console as smoothly as I could. Then I hauled Isobel across her seat and into my lap.

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