CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Skye
The following afternoon, we’re in the middle of clearing another bookcase in the witch collection when the golden sparkles of my magic swirl around us like a glitter-cannon tornado. Where in the book will we land? How much time has passed?
Is this going to be another spicy scene?
My heart skips in a confused mixture of anticipation and dread. I want every second with Luke I can possibly have, since these memories will need to last a lifetime. But I don’t know if my squishy jelly heart can stand making love to him again, knowing he’ll never be mine.
We land in the middle of the empty dance studio, already in position, both of Luke’s hands on my waist. He looks so wrong without his horns and wings, like a pale imitation of himself, but he’s still Luke, and any version of him is better than no Luke.
“Another private dance lesson?” I whisper as Miss Michelle appears from the back.
He grunts his yes grunt, his face set in grumpy number three, mildly annoyed. His fingers tighten as he pulls me closer.
“Skye, Luke, how exciting. I’m so proud of all the progress you’ve made over the past months.”
I widen my eyes and mouth “months” at Luke.
He snorts. “No wonder the dancing skills of the in-book couple are so far ahead.”
“Today, I’d like for you to run through your routine from start to finish without stopping.
During practices, we tend to stop whenever you make a mistake and start over, but you can’t do that in a competition.
It’s important for you to break that habit now.
So no matter what happens, I want you to keep going all the way through to the end. ”
Snickerdoodle. Luke and I have never even seen the book couple’s routine, let alone learned it! Is it exactly like Dirty Dancing or have they adapted it?
“Let’s take a look at what you did last time.” Then Miss Michelle does the most amazing thing ever. She clicks a remote, the television mounted on the wall springs to life, and a video plays of Luke and me dancing.
It’s seriously weird to see a video of yourself doing something you’ve never actually done, but I could weep with relief. Without this video, we might have looped for weeks trying to figure out what the book wants us to do.
Both of us hurry toward the TV, scouring the screen with avid eyes.
It’s the final dance of Dirty Dancing, exactly as the book’s blurb promised, a blend of dirty mambo meets ballroom.
On the video, Miss Michelle’s voice reinforces all the different moves we’re doing. “Dip, spin, mambo steps, turn, shoulder check, turn, mambo steps.”
The book versions of us do everything fairly well… until they get to the final lift, where Skye crashes into Luke.
“You’re both messing up the lift.” Miss Michelle hits pause. “Skye, you’re not jumping high enough, and Luke, your hands need to be on her hipbones to balance her, not her stomach. Got it?”
“Got it, Miss M.” He shoots me the wide grin of the book character. It’s dazzling and gorgeous… and makes me miss the real Luke’s smaller yet more-sincere smile. “Okay, babe. We’ll take it from the top just like we practiced, yeah?”
“Yeah!” The book takes over, and I beam up at him, fluttering my lashes so rapidly I get a little dizzy. Blink. Flutter. Flutter.
Music fills the room with the opening notes of Time of My Life, and Luke grips my waist.
We make it through the first few moves before missing a turn. My magic descends in a blizzard of golden snow, returning us to the start of the scene.
In those few precious moments we have before the book takes over, Luke growls, “We should make errors during the opening steps so that we may study the video several times.”
“Good thinking,” I whisper. “How many times?”
“At least five.”
So that’s what we do. It feels majorly weird to Groundhog Day ourselves on purpose, but he’s right—it gives us a chance to study the choreography closely.
The next time we try, we make it all the way to the carousel lift.
Luke wraps his arm around my waist and picks me up but halts when he can’t complete the spin.
I hang, face level with his, pressed against his firm muscles from chest to thigh, the feel of his body lighting up mine as a tingling awareness fills me.
Luke stares at my lips, his gaze heating.
“She’s supposed to be in front of your hip, not on it,” Miss Michelle says. “That’s why you can’t move.”
Her words fade into the distance as my magic swirls us back to the start. It’s jarring to be standing on my feet, an arm’s distance from Luke instead of held close.
Get your head in the game, Skye, I whisper-hiss to myself. You do not want to be stuck in this scene for the next bazillion years!
Or do I? a tiny voice counters. As long as we’re here, he’s still touching me, still dancing with me, still potentially mine. When we go back to the real world, I’ll lose him. It’s selfish to want to stay so I can dance with him forever.
It’s also really fudging attractive. I hang in the moment, rolling the idea over in my mind as the video plays. Then I sigh.
I can’t do that to him. Luke hates all of this. If I love him—and oh, how I love him!—I can’t grasp for my own happiness at his expense.
Damn. Sometimes being a good person really fudging sucks.
When Miss Michelle turns on the music, I take my position and dance, putting my all into it.
I lose myself in the dance, in our bodies moving as one, the back and forth of give and take.
It’s a manifestation of trust and cooperation and harmony.
It’s the ultimate physical metaphor of love and sex and intimacy.
Dancing with another person is exactly as magical as I always imagined, made even better by the fact that it’s him.
Luke’s hands on me, Luke’s thigh brushing between mine, Luke’s eyes burning with all of his intensity and focus as he stares at me, Luke’s strength lifting me higher than I could ever go on my own.
It takes three more tries, but we eventually make it all the way to the final lift without being Groundhog Day-ed.
I run toward him, all our training at the waterfall filling me with a certainty I’m unused to. But this time, it’s the real me who’s confident instead of the book character. Luke and I have practiced this move every evening for over a week. We can do this.
I can do this.
My feet hit the perfect spot on the wooden floor, and I spring upward, arms stretched overhead.
Luke’s hands find my hips, and he straightens.
I make it almost all the way up when he wobbles below me, taking a half step back while lowering me quickly to the floor.
“Sorry,” he growls. “I’m not used to this body. My balance is different without my wings and tail.”
And I’m not thin like the actress in the movie. My size hasn’t been an issue in the real world, where Luke’s so amazingly strong I kind of forget my weight. But here he’s only human, and I’m a big girl.
I brace, expecting the spell to snap us up and deposit us back at the start of the scene. But my magic doesn’t whirl us away, so the book couple must not be able to do the lift yet either, which means we actually completed the scene exactly like we were supposed to.
“Good job, you two.” Miss Michelle glides close, as graceful as ever. “Now remember, if you’re not feeling the lift on the big day, it’s okay to go with a smaller move. It’s better to do something simpler and succeed.”
“We got it, babe,” Luke chucks me under the chin. “Gonna do the lift on Valentine’s Day. You’ll see.”
I giggle and offer him a flurry of eyelash semaphores. Blink. Blink. Flutter. Blink. Flutter. I no longer need to wonder what secret code I’m sending, because I know exactly what I’m trying to say.
Dance with me forever, Luke.
I love you.
Hours later, I lie in my bed in the castle and stare at the ceiling overhead. The ever-burning fire throws leaping light across the room, making the ivy carved onto the stone of the ceiling seem to move.
No wait. I sit up in bed, squinting to see better. It’s not ivy—it’s the magical vines that grow in Luke’s library.
“Hold still,” Princess Buttercup whines from where she lies pressed against my legs. “I didn’t give you permission to move.”
I flop back down and pick up my ereader, scrolling through my digital library. God, the number of books I have on here is obscene. I stuffed the heck out of my Tbr during one of those big freebie days authors do.
But I can’t tell which book to read, which one will best fit my mood.
There’s only one place with an even bigger romance collection. One place that will tell me which book I should read… My eyes drift back up to the vines.
Slipping one leg out from under the covers, I scootch my butt toward the side of the bed, then ease my other leg away from Princess Buttercup, who gives a sleepy noise of complaint and covers her eyes with her paw.
I wrap my cozy robe over my baby doll nightie, slide my feet into slippers, and sneak through the castle. When I reach the portal window in the reading room, I stroke the frame and whisper, “Please take me to the perfect book I need.”
It deposits me in the romance collection, exactly as expected—I mean, have you met me? Romance is totally my thing. But it doesn’t set me in front of a bookcase.
I stand frozen, barely daring to breathe, in front of the reading nook.
Luke sprawls backward across the chaise lounge, one arm dangling off the side, the other cradling an open book to his stomach.
His head’s tipped back in sleep, his face wiped of all worry.
This isn’t even resting grumpy face number one.
This is an expression I’ve never seen, one of ease and relaxation.
The only other time I’ve seen him without his prickly armor was with the dragon babies.
His unguarded expression makes it really clear just how much he normally hides his heart as he moves through the world. No wonder he’s so hard for me to read.
My chest pinches in pain as I remember exactly why Luke’s so guarded. I could barely deal with the catty snubs from a few of the popular girls during my high school senior year. I can’t imagine what it would be like to live for three fudging centuries being rejected by every single person you know.
Visiting with the babies helped, and I think being here on Earth with people who accept him is good for Luke. But a few months won’t instantly fix centuries of being an outcast. I want to help, to do anything to make it all better. But how?
My eyes trace his relaxed features, remembering the smile he gave his nephew. That’s what I’ll do—I’ll ask Naomi to talk to the dragons again, to make the visits with the younglings a regular occurrence.
I turn to find a transportation crystal, not wanting to wake him, especially since I’m not even supposed to know this collection exists. But before I can leave, something niggles at my subconscious.
I swivel back around, scanning the reading nook more carefully. The spine of the book peaks from between his fingers, showing enough letters that I can fill in the rest of the familiar title by heart: The Princess Bride, my favorite book of all time.
Then I notice a packet of cinnamon hearts open on the little table beside Luke, a few of them spilling across the surface.
I know without a shred of doubt he’s reading that book because of me, the same way he’s eating that candy. I have no idea what they mean to him. Are they more fudging research? Am I still nothing more than a witch with unusual magic for him to study?
But seeing him here with them certainly means something to me.
That book and those candy hearts jab a knife into mine.
They make me imagine a million impossible things: curling up with Luke on this chaise lounge, my feet tucked under one of his thighs as he reads me a romance book.
His clawed fingers pressing candy to my lips.
Long, slow cinnamon kisses that turn into books shoved aside and his hands peeling off my robe to slip beneath my tiny lingerie as his tail slides up my leg.
Me sinking to my knees to take him in my mouth as he growls filthy praise of how good it feels…
Dreams of a magical life full of books and shared passion.
A life with him.
A life I won’t have.
I flee back through the castle.
No book exists that can fix this longing.