Chapter 5 #2
“You already have your happy ending. I wrote it.” I spin, facing the three of them.
Face pinched, Owen tilts his head. “You wrote it?”
“Your stories.” I gesture wildly, swinging the bat in front of me. “Selena. Ivy. Lady Cecily.”
Lars grabs the bat from my hand. “Easy, slugger. I think we’ve established you don’t need this.” He tosses the bat onto the sofa and steps back, giving me a little space.
“What do you mean you wrote it?” Lord James lifts an eyebrow.
“I…” My eyes widen.
The confused expressions etched onto each man’s features telegraphs that they have no idea they are merely characters in stories.
While they may only be stories to me, it’s these three men’s lives.
How would I feel if someone swooped in to tell me that the world I know isn’t real?
That the people I love aren’t real? That I’m not real?
“Nothing… I’m just… This is a lot.” Even I hear the lie in my tone, but I push on. “Don’t you love your ladies? What about them?”
It serves no purpose to pop their realities’ truth bubble. Being magically teleported into this world, away from everyone they know, to help a woman they’ve never met find her happy ending is scary enough. I can’t imagine what it would be like to discover that woman is the writer of their stories.
Lars shrugs. “Ivy made her choice, and I made mine.”
“I enjoyed Lady Cecily’s company, but she’s promised to the Marquis,” Lord James says nonchalantly.
“I just want Selena to be happy.” Gray clouds shadow Owen’s features.
My mouth drags down into a frown. “What about your happiness?”
“I’m happy.”
It’s almost like looking in a mirror. How often had I said that to Hope after Will broke up with me? Each time she assessed me, I’d turn away and insist that I was happy, even though my heart had shattered into so many pieces I never thought I could glue it back together.
I gnaw on my lower lip. “How are you supposed to help me?”
Lord James unnecessarily smooths down his jacket. “Our theory is that one of us is your happy ending.”
“Wh…wh…what?” I choke out.
“You’re unmated,” Lars says.
“Rude.” Hands on hips, I shoot him the most indignant glower I can manage.
Being called single is one thing, but unmated conjures images of a single shoe discarded by the door without its other half in sight. As much as I say I’m okay if my life comes with me not finding that one person, the idea that they may not exist at all snatches that last bit of hope from me.
A lopsided grin curls his lips. “Am I wrong?”
I open and then close my mouth.
“It’s not a judgment… Not on you, at least,” Owen offers.
“It is a judgment of the fools who don’t see the diamond in front of them,” Lord James adds, his caramel-smooth voice dropping low.
“How do you know I’m single?” I mutter, fiddling with the hem of my blouse.
“The only scents here when we arrived were you and him.” Lars points at me and then at Wentworth, who sprawls in his bed in the corner, asleep.
“If you were mated, they’d be all over you.
Even if it’s been days, their scent infuses itself to you.
The mated smell different, two distinct aromas that meld into one… And you are not mated.”
“Again, rude.” Lips pursed, I flick a wrist at him. “And what makes you think you’re here because of that?”
“We’re all drawn to you. Like a siren’s song, the vision of you called us. That irresistible song is powerless compared to the thrall of your beauty. Never had I known beauty until my eyes clamped upon you.” Lord James saunters closer with jungle-cat grace, ready to pounce on its meal.
And I’m dinner. I almost gulp. Every muscle in my body spools tight with conflicting emotions.
They’re not real, but the attraction that pulses through me is more real than anything I’ve felt in a very long time.
Not since Will or the momentary attraction to Davis.
Eww, why am I thinking about him at this moment?
“They really were fools,” he murmurs, brushing a tendril of my hair behind my ear, the heat of his stare almost having its way with me.
“Who?” The question is breathy.
“Every man who has been in the same vicinity of you for more than a moment without falling to their knees to worship you.”
“Oh dear,” I squeak.
“No flirting,” Lars yanks Lord James away by his collar.
“This is not flirtation. This is seduction. Quite different, I assure you. I am certain that you do not know the difference. No doubt your idea of seduction is hoisting someone over your shoulder and taking them back to your lair.” Lord James jams a finger into Lars’s chest.
“Your mother didn’t seem to mind. Also, you’re confusing her.” He crowds Lord James, causing him to take two steps back. “This is overwhelming her.”
“You are not supposed to be smelling her.”
“I’m not. Just look at Georgia’s face.”
Lord James peeks around Lars and studies me for a beat. His features squint with concern at whatever he sees there.
“Alright. Let’s add no seduction to the rules.” He steps away from Lars. “At least, until my lady says otherwise.”
“ Our lady,” Lars growls.
“Our?” I guffaw.
The absurdity of this situation slams into me with the blunt force of a train.
I’m standing in my living room with two men I dreamed up and brought to fictional life from my books fighting over me while a third one stands by half-concerned and half-confused.
Belly-deep laughs rack through me. The intensity of my laughter causes my knees to buckle, and I fall to the carpet, plopping onto my ass, with loud gulping laughs.
Wentworth trots over, nuzzling into my arms.
“Georgia?”
“My lady?”
“Rabbit?”
Raising my hands in the air, I shake my head. The laughter steals my ability to speak. As unreal as this entire situation is, what breaks me is that these three men that I wrote believe they are here to date me. That, after all the bad dates, my Mr. Right may have just been in one of my books.
“Someone approaches.” Lars grits out, his spine straight.
The doorknob turns, and then a loud bang at my door silences my laughter. My three would-be suitors meet my wide eyes.
Lars prowls to the door and sniffs. “Not a threat. They smell related to you, Georgia.” He tosses a ‘not sorry’ expression at me over his shoulder. “You didn’t say anything about me not smelling anyone else.”
“Georgia? Why’s the door locked?” Jackson’s muffled voice filters through my front door.