Chapter 15
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
DO YOU KNOW ANY WITCHES?
T he alarm on my cell phone jolts me awake.
Six a.m. is too early after only two hours of sleep.
Research had claimed the hours I should have spent slumbering.
I’d looked into theories and legends, taking me down various rabbit holes that all led to one constant universal truth: wishes have consequences, both intended and unintended.
The unintended stack up. Ripping my three book boyfriends from the only lives they know. Doc’s accident. The hurt on Davis’s face last night. Even if I believe that the first two aren’t exactly my fault, the last one is. I led him on. I hurt him. There’s no other way of looking at it.
“What have you done, Georgia?” I sigh over a sharp twinge in my chest.
Wentworth rises from the end of the bed and lumbers to me. He cuddles into me, and I lean into his squishy body. For just a moment, I lose myself in the comfort of his silken coat.
Scooting out of bed, I brush my teeth and take Wentworth out for a short walk before feeding him.
The single text from Hope this morning says Don’t even think of NOT coming over for breakfast , which means I won’t spend the morning wallowing, hate-spiraling, or following that Reddit thread about the theory on fountains before I head to SPN.
Instead, I shower and get ready. Tossing my hair into a messy bun, I tug on black pants, a jewel tone blouse, a blazer, and slip some gold hoops into my earlobes.
It’s my go-to ‘I appear put together, but I’m not’ look.
“You’re a mess, but at least you’re a hot mess,” I offer a half-hearted smile and swipe pink lipstick on.
A forceful knock on my front door startles me. It can’t be Hope, because I’d just texted her the teapot emoji . It’s our sign to put the kettle on because I will be spilling the tea, so she knows I’m on my way.
“What if it’s Davis?” Longing flutters in my chest.
I haven’t heard from him since he walked away last night. Although that’s to be expected when five minutes after I use him as a scratching post, I tell him I can’t see him.
It’s almost too much to hope. That somewhere between his goodbye last night and this morning’s sunrise, that he… I’m not sure what, but I spin on my heels and run toward the door anyway, an excited Wentworth trotting behind me.
I fling open the front door, and my expression falls. Even Wentworth huffs a disappointed breath and turns back to claim his bed in the corner.
Lord James, a rakish smile anchoring his face, stands on the small porch outside my front door. A charcoal suit hugs his defined physique, and a single red rose, which looks suspiciously like the ones from Mr. Rios’s yard down the street, is in his hand.
“My lady,” he drawls, offering a small bow.
“Lord James.” Disappointment ripples through me.
“Are you displeased to see me?”
“Yes… No… I mean, no, I am. I’m just…” I gnaw on my bottom lip. “I’m surprised. Our date isn’t until Sunday night.”
Jackson’s Just Write dating schedule has me going on a date with each man and making a decision by Tuesday.
That leaves enough time to prepare the lucky bachelor to attend the wedding with me.
While a date for the wedding may be Jackson’s goal for me, mine is to be done with this.
By Tuesday, I will either get all three of these men back to their stories or I’ll choose one of them.
The internet research that kept me up most of the night didn’t offer a lot of hope, but I have a potential resolution.
“I took advantage of an empty townhouse to steal over to your abode.”
Head tilted, I raise one eyebrow. “You’re under strict orders not to leave the townhouse nor see me outside of our official date unless with the group.”
“What kind of hero would I be if I listened to someone else, rather than my heart?” He reaches out, handing me the flower, his buttery timbre is flirtatious.
“One who listens.” Smirking, I take the flower.
“My capacity to listen is boundless.” He steps closer, and his large body towers over me.
Those emerald eyes almost bore into me. Hand raised, he fiddles with my earring before dragging one finger along my jawline and down the long column of my throat.
“Soon you shall discover my limitless potential, my lady.”
“Lord James.”
“Call me James,” he murmurs, tracing slow circles along my skin.
“James…” My breath whooshes from me.
I’m not unimpacted by him, but the reaction is reminiscent of shoving a jigsaw piece into the wrong puzzle. It doesn’t fit, not completely, and the image isn’t correct, but it’s there, nonetheless.
He leans close, his breath rasps against my lips, the sensation akin to the caress of rough palms. “I am but yours to command.”
“What?” Palm on his chest, I push him back, putting distance between us. “That’s for Lady Cecily, not me.”
“My lady?”
“It’s Georgia, not ‘my lady’!” Hands on my hips, I mimic his accent.
A fire burns within me. It’s the second time in an eight-hour period that a man has used a line on me meant for another woman, but something about how James calls me “my lady” stokes that anger. It’s like a placeholder endearment for whatever lady is there.
He places his hand on his chest. “Pardon me?”
“Don’t recycle lines I wrote for you to say to someone else”—I point to him and then myself—“I deserve better.”
“My la… Georgia, you deserve everything, and that’s what I plan to give you.” He crosses the threshold, causing me to step back. “All I have to give?—”
Shoulders slumping, I finish his line. “Is yours. All you need to do is ask.”
It’s not just the recycled line for another woman being spewed to me, but annoyance at my own stupid expectations. James is just acting as I wrote him to be. Owen may have surprised me last night, but I can’t forget that these three men are creations from my imagination.
Not to mention, I have a flimsy foundation to be upset that he’s using lines meant for someone else.
We’re not in a relationship, and I don’t want to be.
Attraction aside, James isn’t the man who consumes my thoughts.
None of my book boyfriends are. Worry nips at me that even if I don’t have to choose one of them, I may have already lost the man I want to give my heart to.
“It’s okay,” I say, my voice small.
“Georgia…” He steps forward, stops, and heaves a long breath. “I mean no offense. I thought I was being romantic. This world is utterly different than mine. I am not sure how things work or how I work here.”
“I’m so sorry. This may be harder for you than for Lars or Owen. Their books are at least modern-day, even if Lars’s has supernatural beings. His world still has internet and cars.”
He nods, his throat bobbing, and takes a careful step closer. “Please know that my feelings for you are real. My ways may not be what you’re accustomed to, but do not doubt my sincerity.”
“You don’t even know me.”
“But I do.” He grips my shoulders. “You’re beautiful, kind, talented, brilliant, strong, and a million other things I have yet to discover about you.
From the moment I clamped eyes on you, my heart knew it was you.
You may believe that you wrote me to fall in love with Lady Cecily, but I think I was written for you. ” He cups my face and leans in.
My pulse roars.
It’s almost like watching a car wreck. Everything is in slow motion.
“No.” Blinking out of the little trance, I pull out of his hold. “This isn’t a good idea.”
“Is this not the point?” He gestures, his tone curt. “For you to pick one of us?”
This all feels wrong. If I say, “Yes”, this all could end. Lars and Owen may be sent back. It’s the easy solution, but since when do I do things the easy way? Just like with publishing, I took the harder path. My path.
They don’t belong here. I need to try to get all three of them back where they truly belong.
That needs to be my focus. James may be the sure thing, but he himself says he doesn’t understand this world.
That he doesn’t fit. Even if he doesn’t love Lady Cecily, how happy would he be in a place where he doesn’t belong?
I square my shoulders. “Stick to the plan. Outside of Sunday, do not see me unless with the group.”
“As you command.” His reply is hard-edged. “We’ll play your game, my lady.”
“This isn’t a game.”
“I know that.” He cocks an eyebrow. “Do you?”
“What does that mean?” I glare.
“Georgia, is everything okay?”
I twist toward the door where Rem stands, his narrowed gaze jumps between me and James. “Yes. Jim was just leaving.”
“As you command,” he says again, a sardonic smile sketched across his face. With a curt bow, James turns and strides out of the apartment.
“Owen, then Davis, and now Jim. Shall I expect any other men to appear?” Rem asks, his tone teeters between playful and judgmental.
“I hope not.” Sighing, I cross my arms over my chest. “Is there something you need, Rem?”
“Hope sent me to check on you. You were supposed to be down ten minutes ago, and you weren’t responding to your texts.”
I look at the kitchen table where my cell phone sits beside my purse. “Sorry. I’m coming now.”
Grabbing my things, I give Wentworth a goodbye pet and then follow Rem out. Shaking his head, he turns, pulls out his keys, and locks my door. I blanch at the action, thinking of how Jackson says Rem checks my door most days because I sometimes forget to lock it.
“Georgia,” he calls as we reach the bottom of the stairs.
Sucking in a breath, I turn to face him.
He rakes his fingers through his short blond hair. “I know I gave you a hard time about your first date with Davis and needing to move on from Will, but…”
“But what?” My mouth flattens.
“This”—he waves his hand at me—“what are you doing? You go on a date with one guy, only for me to find you pressed up against the back gate by another man, and now I find a third man in your apartment before the sun is barely up.”
“You said for me to move on,” I snark.
“Don’t be cute.” A crease dips his forehead.