Chapter 4 The Slow Burn
the slow burn [trope]
a romance technique involving two people who clearly belong together but enjoy dragging out shit for no reason; characterized by lingering looks, accidental hand brushes, and enough unresolved tension to give anyone a headache; usually ends with the audience screaming, “about f*cking time!”
“Favorite movie?” he asks as we stroll down the main street.
I take a long moment to think it through, adjusting my mask over the bridge of my nose. “I don’t know… uh, American Pie?”
“American Pie?” He looks at me, horrified. “You think that’s my favorite movie?”
“Well, not anymore.”
He narrows his eyes, pretending to sulk. “A douchebag—that’s what you see when you look at me, don’t you?”
I flippantly brush my hair off my shoulder. “I plead the Fifth.”
He slows his pace, noticing that I’m lagging a bit thanks to these ridiculous heels Paige forced me into.
I think he knows I’m teasing. Yes, he is annoyingly smug but also…
attentive, staring at me like he actually cares about every random word that falls out of my mouth.
It’s refreshingly rare. And fun. Something I hate about dating—which is not what we’re doing—is the awkward silence.
The forced conversations. There’s been none of that during our three-course dinner.
“Okay, let’s see,” he says, studying me head to toe. “Favorite color… yellow?”
“Black, actually.”
He hums thoughtfully, as though this black revelation is a clue to my innermost soul. “I can see that.” He claps his hands. “Okay, this next one’s crucial, so please, try not to screw it up.”
“Hit me.”
He steps in front of me, clasping his hands as if praying. “My guilty-pleasure song.”
“Oh, easy. Backstreet Boys, ‘I Want It That Way.’ ”
He grimaces, shaking his head dramatically. “Are you kidding me? That song is a certified masterpiece. No guilt required.”
I give him a long, appraising look, then cross my arms. “ ‘Mambo No. 5’?”
He recoils, turning his back on me. “Wow.” He holds one finger up. “Last chance. Don’t blow it.”
I bite back a laugh. “ ‘Barbie Girl’?”
He doubles over in laughter, shaking his head. “You know what? Close enough. ‘Call Me Maybe.’ ”
“Oh my God. Are you serious?”
“Yes. I had a pet tarantula, and I walk around whistling Carly Rae Jepsen. I’m layered and eclectic.”
“I’ll bet,” I say, grinning. “Well, I’m expecting full honesty here.”
“Of course,” he says, crossing his heart.
“My favorite movie?”
“American Pie.” I narrow my eyes. “Kidding. The Silence of the Lambs. You totally had an Anthony Hopkins poster on your wall at some point in your life, didn’t you?”
I didn’t, though he got incredibly close.
I must have watched The Silence of the Lambs a million times.
What exactly about me screams Hannibal Lecter?
Does he know I distractedly noticed all the places we’ve walked through where either of us could have murdered the other and stashed their body with no witnesses?
Not that I would ever.
But seven.
“I’d expect you to be better at a game you suggested,” I say.
“Bet you I’ll guess your favorite ice cream flavor.”
“Like you’re obviously a pistachio guy?”
He juts his chin forward, towering above me a good ten inches. “You wish, mint chip girl.”
My laugh is cut short as the back of my shoe digs into my ankle for the millionth time tonight. When I put these on, it was under threat—and most important, after I was promised I wouldn’t have to walk anywhere.
“I’ll never understand how people manage those torture devices,” he says with a frown before bending down and pulling his shoes off.
“What are you—”
“Despite your cruel judgment of my taste, I am, at heart, a gentleman.” He extends his hand toward my ankle, staring up through his mask and the usual rogue curls. “May I?”
When I nod, he slides off one of my shoes, leaving my foot throbbing in grateful relief as I balance myself with a hand on his shoulder.
His broad, strong shoulder.
He slips his shoe onto my foot, then does the same with the other, leaving me in his slightly oversize oxfords, while he holds my strappy heels like they’re fragile glass slippers.
“What about you?” I ask, gesturing to the blue socks on his feet.
“I’ll put my socks to good use.” He looks around like he’s just realized he has no idea where we are. We’re surrounded by a dark electronics store, a closed shoe-repair shop, and a tiny bookstore with all the lights off. “And anyway, we’re here.”
“Here?” There’s nothing here.
“Uh… huh,” he says, eyes suddenly lighting up as he spots something behind me. “There. That’s where we’re going.”
I turn around to see a blinking LED sign, its purple neon letters screaming “Psychic” under a set of worn velvet curtains. “Oh my God…”
“I don’t need to remind you of our deal.”
He does not. We get to choose one activity each, and it’s his turn.
“Nor that this won’t cost more than twenty bucks.”
Which means I’m stuck with him for another round of this. Though I expect the same sense of inconvenience I felt earlier tonight, there’s a warm eagerness in my stomach. I guess tonight isn’t going as badly as I’d pictured.
“Okay. Let’s go waste your money.”
He clicks his tongue. “It’s our money, actually.”
I walk, thankful that though his feet are bigger than mine, I can still walk in his shoes without tripping over my own feet, and enter the shop.
The smell of incense and dust violently surrounds us as we step past the velvet curtains hanging from the ceiling. Crystals and tarot cards line every available surface, and a bead curtain rattles as we enter to find a woman with a long shawl and a cascade of necklaces looking up.
“Welcome,” she says in a low voice, doing a double take when she notices our outfits and masks.
“Hi. We’d like a reading.” Squeezing me into a side hug, Rafael adds, “We’re on our first date.”
My eyes roll so far back I might just see into another dimension, but I don’t argue—he didn’t when I dragged him to the fanciest restaurant in town.
“Ah, love readings,” she says, eyeing me with a glint that feels a bit too personal. “My specialty.”
Why do I have a feeling her specialty is whatever the current client asks for?
She takes a seat at a small table in the corner and motions for us to sit across from her. I slide into the chair, bracing myself, while Rafael flops down with far too much enthusiasm, his knees knocking into mine under the table.
With a deep breath, the woman closes her eyes and reaches for a deck of tarot cards. Glancing at Rafael, then at me, she shuffles slowly. “Hold hands.”
“Hold what now?” I blurt.
She looks up, waiting. “For the reading to be accurate, your energies must be aligned.”
I glance at Rafael, who’s biting back a laugh.
“Gotta align those energies, don’t we?”
He reaches over and takes my hand, his grip firm but warm, the cool brush of his rings sending a shiver up my arm.
His skin is calloused at the fingertips, like that of someone who’s lived a little hard, but his thumb moves gently across my knuckles.
A little tingle sparks through me, impossible to ignore.
Just how many times have I dreamed of Rafael Gray holding my hand? Never in a million years would I have imagined it’d be inside a psychic’s shop.
The woman spreads the cards before her, face down, in a fan. She gestures for Rafael to pick one, and he reaches out dramatically, then selects a card. Once I pick one, too, she flips the first card over—the Lovers.
Of course.
She raises her brows, looking between us. “Ah. A powerful card, especially for those seeking connection.”
I try to keep a straight face, but Rafael, of course, is practically glowing. I’m not seeking a connection with you! I yell with my eyes.
The psychic turns my card over, and she looks up, almost surprised.
“The Wheel of Fortune,” she says. “This card represents fate. Serendipity. A connection that appears by chance but is meant to be.” Her gaze flicks between us, holding each of us.
“I see love in your future. A powerful love, one that neither of you can see coming.”
I let out a very unclassy snort.
The psychic narrows her eyes at me, a slight frown pulling at her painted lips. “The cards do not lie,” she warns.
“Oh, I’m sure you’re right. But people do—in fact, this isn’t even our first date. Or any date.”
The woman taps the cards emphatically. “The Wheel of Fortune. The Lovers,” she says in a grim tone. “These cards do not appear together by accident. There’s a bond here, whether or not you admit it.”
Rafael leans in. “Yeah, Freckles. Maybe you’re just in denial.”
“Or maybe this whole thing is just as random as shuffling a deck of cards,” I say pointedly.
The psychic collects her cards and straightens, eyeing me one more time. “You may doubt me now, but the cards have a way of revealing the truth.”
“Duly noted,” I say as we all stand.
I wait for Rafael to pay, then follow him as he walks out the door, but the psychic’s voice calls, “You. Skeptic woman.”
I glance back at her, the door handle gripped in my fist. “Yes?”
“A dark heart.”
“Excuse me?”
“Gray with a dark heart,” she says as she closes the cash register. “You’ll understand when the time comes.” She smirks. “You’ll believe me then.”
I blink, watching her for a couple of seconds as my mind spins. When she notices, she gestures at me to leave, and almost automatically, I close the door.
“Everything okay?”
Did she say… gray with a dark heart? Like—like Rafael Gray?
“Freckles?”
“Huh?”
Rafael walks closer, chin tilted down as he tries to look into my eyes. Shit, I’m basically panting.
“Uh, sorry. I…”
It’s just a coincidence, Scarlett. That’s how psychics—fancy word for imposters—make their living. By taking one generic detail, like the striking color of Rafael’s eyes, and making it into a sinister warning.
“She said ‘Gray with a dark heart.’ ”