12
In a turbulent mood from Andrew’s phantom touch, Love trespasses onto his property the next morning. For a while, he idles outside the front door as if waiting for Love, staring into the distance until finally driving into the village.
Hoping to discover more about his sight, as well as how to match him with Holly, Love breaks into the house. One window has been left unlocked, which must be an accident, and because she’s not of this realm, there’s no threat of triggering the security system.
His cedarwood and eucalyptus scent permeates every surface. The reading chairs, the fireplace, and the kitchen. Mythology, paranormal, and fantasy texts crowd the built-in bookcases in Andrew’s office. Those, alongside shelves displaying his own titles, which include various embossed or foiled special editions.
Because momentum is the perk of being a deity, Love audits Andrew’s work with diligence, absorbing each book cover-to-cover at inhuman speed. The world-building is engrossing, less proseful, more action-packed, with plot twists occurring at unexpected times. Likewise, his characters are engaging—flawed yet redeemable.
Unfortunately, none of the texts reveal a perceptive link to her kind. Love opts to double check the contents. She pours over the stories, including the smut scenes, which are lengthy and explicit. Words like “pussy” and “cock” appear with regularity. Descriptions of snapping hips, wet folds, and cum have an unfavorable effect on Love’s core, which tightens between her thighs.
At one point, a male lead sinks his fanged mouth into the nexus of a female’s legs and lashes his tongue against her labia. Love slaps the book onto the shelf and bids a retreat, vowing to resume this literary investigation later. Otherwise, she’ll saturate his floor, then make herself come to his words. Yet another means by which this mortal can touch her without physically doing so.
On that score, she avoids his bedroom. Going there will only flood Love’s olfactory senses with his essence and maintain her lustful craving.
Holly’s townhouse is next. In the near future, shadowing the woman’s public activities will be essential, but Love prefers to begin with the lovers’ private lives. At present, Holly is in the bathroom, evidently painting a circus on her face, for as long as it’s taking her to emerge. While waiting for her to return, Love snoops. She rifles through the sheets and pillows, searching for clues about previous suitors and trysts. Among humans, the scents of past affairs tend to linger, yet there’s nothing but Griffin’s odor, which has seeped into the mattress.
It had been easy to track the female’s berry fragrance and locate her home. For a start, she’s a tidy one. The bedroom is spotless, her slippers rest at a set angle beneath a dresser, and pictures of her and Griffin line the rim of her dressing mirror without overlapping. In every photo, she’s looking at the camera while he’s looking at her.
Love stops ransacking Holly’s bed. The woman’s wardrobe is filled with soft colors, while Andrew favors dark shades. Eclectically, the woman loves intricately carved furniture and runs her own fencing studio.
Andrew’s tastes differ. True, he also makes an effort to keep his home nicely outfitted and stays physically fit, based on the weights and archery equipment Love had found in one of his recessed closets. Not least of all, a glance at his physique is telling enough.
Yet his preferences in everything else diverge from Holly’s, from what Love has seen of his record collection and the meal he’d cooked for his father. At least compared with the lively tunes bursting from Holly’s phone and the vegan takeout boxes in her fridge.
However, one of the romances she’d bought in Georgie’s shop rests on the nightstand. So there it is. The unifying link. Her targets have a similar affinity for books. If not writing, managing business tasks, training at the archery range, or dealing with his ungrateful relative, Andrew is at the bookstore, doing upkeep for the matriarch. In fact, he’s there at this moment.
If Love can somehow provoke Holly to venture over there…
Abandoning the bed, Love snatches a romance novel from the nightstand. It’s one of the titles Holly had purchased from the store, on the day she and Andrew ran into each other. A bookmark sticks out of page 152. Love scans the story, then rips out pages 160 to 165. It’s a lovemaking scene that takes place after the heroine slowly and sensually undresses the hero, but before the hero returns the favor. Returning the book to the table, Love winces at the audible thud.
Holly emerges with thicker eyelashes and glistening lips. She pauses and surveys the beating Love has given the blankets. With a frown, the female straightens every ruffle, then snuggles into her pillows and opens the book.
Love settles onto the opposite end of the bed and reclines on her back, with her head hanging off the edge as she scrutinizes the ceiling, awaiting the inevitable.
Usually, this part gratifies Love. It’s the moment when events are set into motion, guiding the lovers’ paths like train tracks about to cross. This is when her invisibility doesn’t count, and she has an effect on the mortal world.
Yet the satisfaction doesn’t come this time. Indeed, spite gnaws at her insides.
A dreamy sigh drifts into her ears. Love rises on her elbows and follows the sound. Holly’s engrossed in the story, twirling a blonde lock around her finger and blushing at the book’s content. Based on the rapid speed of her blood and the way Holly drives her tongue across her lips, she’s reached an erotic scene.
After immersing herself in Andrew’s books, Love understands this response. Yet she wants to ask if the longing feels the same for everyone, be they mortal or immortal. Are authentic embraces equally intense?
Holly’s fingers slide back and forth between her breasts, which heave under the sweater. Moments after she flips the page, those same digits sneak to the waistband of her jeans, where they grope the buttons as if debating whether to pop them open and plunge inside.
It’s not the first time Love has been privy to an exhibition. Masturbation is a component of attraction and a natural occurrence during the matchmaking process. Typically, it’s a mutual event between partners, though she never remains to witness the climax, when the lovers make one another come. Her disregard for privacy does have its limits.
At any rate, this ardent side of Holly is telling. She’s stirred by passionate prose, and with Andrew being a wordsmith, this might be useful.
Yet Love hates that it might be useful. She loathes to imagine him writing to this woman, the way he’d written to Love, much less to picture him scripting a more meaningful passage. Once they’re matched, Holly might have the same beguiled reaction to Andrew as she does to the book. Or their intimate encounters will be different. Better.
Closer. Longer.
Holly whimpers, urging Love’s attention back to the scene. The third jean button is undone, and her fingers are diving for the edge of her lace panties, which peek from the gap.
Love is about to flee the premises when the woman’s phone vibrates. An unknown song beats out a loud percussion, the invasive sound hollering for attention.
Holly jerks in surprise, drops the book into her lap, and seizes the apparatus. With her pants undone, she gasps into the receiver, “Griffin?”
“Babe!” the brute exclaims, his tone exuberant. “You ready? I’m on my way.”
Holly checks the time on her phone. “You’re early.”
“That’s because I miss you. It’s called an obsession.”
A tender grin slides across her mouth before she smothers it. “We made plans for late afternoon.”
Silence. “You sound annoyed.”
“I just wasn’t expecting to leave yet. You could have texted before heading out. Would it kill you to stop making assumptions?”
His sigh stretches across the room. “You’re still pissed about Andrew.”
“Still?” she repeats. “It wasn’t that long ago. Yes, I’m mad. You were a drunk asshole who overreacted.”
“And he was the sober asshole who responded. Also, I defend my woman. That hermit keeps getting in your way.”
“Stop it, Griffin. You’re smarter than that. Those were accidents.” She lowers her voice, which fills with sudden compassion. “And you know this has nothing to do with me.”
A frown contorts Love’s face. What does that mean?
Griffin falls quiet once more, Holly’s words presumably striking true. When he replies, his voice grows terse. “I wasn’t the only one fighting. That fucker made the first move and then pulled some tornado ninja shit on us.”
Love smirks. Tornado ninja shit.
“Oh, I hadn’t realized two wrongs make a right,” Holly grunts. “Forget it. I don’t want to go over this again. Anyway, I thought you were still on site.”
“Done and done. We finished installing the studs today.”
From what Love has learned, the man runs a construction contracting business. Yet there’s a note of fatigued resignation in his voice when he speaks of it.
“I’m bringing those marshmallows you like,” Griffin croons. “Those vanilla ones, from that place you always talk about. Not the generic grocery brand. I know you hate those.”
“The only thing I hate is that you treat people like enemies when they’re not,” Holly disputes to the ceiling. “To say nothing of how you treat yourself.”
Griffin swallows. It’s an easy sound for a human to miss, but not his lover, nor the eavesdropping goddess idling several feet away. “Say the word. I’ll turn around if you want me to.”
Yes! Tell him to fuck off!
Holly’s expression falters. Despite the exchange, she doesn’t want him to turn around. Feigning dismay, Holly jokes, “And sacrifice a bag of marshmallows?”
No! The woman is supposed to discover the torn book pages, go to Georgie’s shop, get her money refunded for the novel, and accidentally run into Andrew.
To Love’s shock, a gentle chuckle rumbles from the phone. Truly, she hadn’t thought the man capable of making such a noise. Moreover, she has difficulty envisioning the male’s big hands carrying a parcel of sweets.
After disconnecting, Holly flops onto the bed while Love paces. If Holly has alternate plans with that asinine brute, this day won’t progress as it should.
A feminine gasp floods the bedroom. Love swings toward Holly, who has reached the ripped section of the book, her expression scrunching like a wad of tissue. She flips back and forth through the text as if the missing passages will magically reappear.
Love’s satisfaction is short-lived as a set of wheels grind into the snow outside, and a motor churns from the driveway. Holly deposits the book on the bed, then gathers a herringbone coat and a purse from her closet.
Shit. Snatching her bow and quiver off the floor, Love darts after the female, who exits the townhouse.
Griffin drives a restless sports car, the interior reeking of machismo and buffoonery. Yet he beams at Holly as if her beauty is the sole reason gravity exists, because someone that lovely shouldn’t be allowed to float away.
Circling the vehicle, Love glares at the I’ll huff and puff and run your ass down bumper sticker. Mortal males and their crude tastes.
The female dashes toward her mate’s car, a smile blossoming across her face. Griffin revs the engine, evidently worried no one in this country will hear him. Either that, or he hopes the shrill noise will inflate the circumference of his cock.
This relentless shit-for-brains is going to thwart Love’s mission on a regular basis. She must stop them from driving away, prevent this male from wooing Holly.
Growling, Love rips an arrow from her pack and shoots the front passenger tire. The iron tip slashes through rubber, the gash emitting a wheezing piglet cry, and the tire deflates into a flabby puddle.
The arrow vanishes and manifests back into Love’s quiver. At the same time, Holly freezes in her tracks.
“What the —” she and Griffin balk in unison.
Griffin tears out of the driver’s side and stalls beside Holly as they gawk at the pile of rubber. She tries to reassure him, but his tirade stampedes over her words. He rants about the grand plans he’d had, including the village gazebo, her favorite coffee, the vanilla marshmallows, and the blanket he’d brought. A winter picnic.
Too bad those plans hadn’t included a spare tire.
Holly ventures next door and returns with her neighbors, along with a litter of children who swarm the driveway. One of the fledglings scales the car and proclaims, “I’m a knight, here to slay the enemy!”
Love approves and points to Griffin. There he is. Seize the fuckwit.
“It just blew on me,” Griffin explains to the couple.
“You’ll have to call it in,” the wife apologizes. “We don’t have a spare that size.”
Love perches on the car’s hood, crosses her legs, and celebrates. The neighbors return to their house with the children—who’ve stolen the marshmallows from the passenger’s seat—but the lovers remain outside, shivering and talking. Love monitors the situation, making sure they don’t find alternative transportation or a sexual form of distraction.
A tow truck arrives fifteen minutes later. Ulrik exits the vehicle, surveys the damage, and glances toward the couple, his leathery face squinting at Holly. “I know you.”
Love tenses. The female stiffens, her doe eyes widening.
“That was you with my son the other night,” Ulrik says.
“Your son?” she peeps.
“Famous recluse. White hair. Gray eyes. Built like a summit. Was that you with him?”
Apparently, Griffin has no idea about this. His grisly expression indicates as much.
Ulrik’s gaze ticks between the lovers. “The prick came home that night with a shiner.” He strides up to Griffin. “Lemme guess, you’re also the boyfriend—or maybe just the fuck toy—and that was your handiwork on my meal ticket. Though, it seems to me you got the brunt of it.”
The man’s sneer expands as he inspects the bruises on Griffin’s face and the braces on his knees, which Love hadn’t noticed until now. While she processes the evidence of what Andrew and she had done to him, the men size each other up.
Sensory overload ensues. The venomous taste in Love’s mouth, which is coming from Ulrik, must be directed at Griffin. At last, Andrew’s odious relative is going to defend him.
Yet before Griffin can flex his muscles and deny everything, Ulrik wipes his hands on his uniform. “Don’t worry, Second Fiddle. Andrew’s not fucking your woman.” He swaggers backward while declaring, “Because if he was, you’d be nothing but an afterthought.”
Insufferable pest! Love might commend Ulrik for boasting about Andrew, if not for two reasons. First, he’d referred to her target as a meal ticket. Second, baiting Griffin by flaunting Andrew’s skills as a lover will backfire.
Forget that Ulrik is indirectly advocating for Andrew as she’d hoped. For the tactic is all wrong. Love has learned plenty from her crew about anger, sorrow, and envy. This man is too furious at the world, too bent on wounding everyone in his proximity, to care how it benefits or harms a member of his family. He’s solely interested in provoking anyone and everyone, heedless of the consequences. If others around him hurt, he shall feel better about his own shortcomings.
Love despises her invisibility. She longs to be human, to dig her claws into this piece of shit, to pick apart every bone of his fragile skeleton.
Holly glowers with umbrage, and Griffin snarls, both of them digesting what they’ve just heard. Griffin wishes to atone for his mishaps, however the man is capricious and nursing a private demon, considering what Holly had implied earlier. He’ll dwell on Holly walking home with Andrew, then wedge himself into every encounter Love orchestrates, if only out of fear that he’ll lose her. And while this may work in Love’s favor if Griffin becomes overbearing, it will also cause friction in Andrew’s presence. In which case, Holly is wise enough to dismiss both men purely out of exasperation. The female knows her worth and won’t let a pair of alpha males disrupt her life.
Then there’s Ulrik. Agitator. Instigator. A spiteful impediment to Andrew and Holly’s match.
One moment, Ulrik badgers Andrew about getting into skirmishes over a female. The next moment, this loose cannon is inciting a rivalry. Likely, the shift in attitude has to do with Andrew’s jibe over breakfast, when Ulrik had pinned him to the refrigerator.
You’re just about the biggest dumbfuck if you let a woman run you into the ground.
You would know.
As Ulrik unwinds a chain from the tow truck, Love scrubs her face in abject misery. Only one person can assist in cleaning up this mess.
But she really, really, really…
…really, really, really…
…really doesn’t wish to ask for his assistance.
“Fucking hell,” a voice grumbles from behind her. “What now?”
The Stars couldn’t be more vexing. Even in the daytime, they’re awake in that cursed sky, ready to help a goddess summon a god—whether that goddess had intended to or not.
With a sigh, Love turns to face her visitor.
Tattoos. Earrings. Grimace.
Anger.