Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
DAPHNE
I press myself close to the wall outside the break room door. Angling my body to the side, I peer through the door’s glass window. Thankfully my target is alone, sipping tea at one of the many tables inside. He’s half turned away from me, his focus locked on the broadsheets he’s reading. I untuck the piece of paper from my waistcoat pocket and unfold it. Holding it out before me, I look from my sketch to the man.
My target is Brad Folger from marketing. He’s tall, I suppose, with expertly styled dark hair, a decent build, and—most importantly—human hands. I haven’t a clue what he looks like naked or if he has a rippling abdomen and excessive sex appeal, all of which are essential for Edwina’s heroes, but at least he’ll look suitable next to the heroine in my sketch. More so than the weasel-man.
“Yeah,” I mutter, “he’ll do.”
“He’ll do?” Araminta echoes, her voice a sharp whisper. “That’s how you refer to your future husband? Remind me how you made the leap from male model to matrimony?”
“I’m doing what the humans call killing two birds with one stone .” Not that I’ve ever used stones to kill birds, for my teeth have always been sufficient. When I was a pine marten, that is. Now I go to the butcher on Third Avenue. Their smoked chicken breast is delicious.
Araminta’s mouth falls open. “You’re going to kill Brad from marketing? There are easier ways to procure a model without resorting to murder.”
I cut her a glare. “It’s an expression. It means I’m taking care of two problems at once. One being my need for a model.”
“What’s your second problem?”
My second problem is a magically binding ritual I drunkenly participated in last Lughnasadh with a honey badger named Clyde, but Araminta doesn’t need to know about that. All that matters is that marriage will solve both issues. And since Brad is the last man who has asked me out on a date, I might as well start with him.
I tuck the sketch back in my pocket. Then, with a bracing breath, I push open the break room door and stride toward Mr. Folger’s table. In my head, I rehearse the right things to say.
Good morning.
How do you do?
How is your tea?
What do you think of the weather?
Interesting news in the paper today?
Small talk is essential groundwork before broaching important topics. Like accepting dates. Or asking men to model for you. And eventually getting married. Society has rules and a correct order of doing things. While I may struggle with some of the finer points of propriety, I’ve always been good at following rules.
Save for that time I bit my fellow debutante, but that was a special circumstance.
I stop before Mr. Folger’s table. He looks up from his broadsheets and gives me a polite smile. I wish I could say his grin makes my heart palpitate, the way it does in books when a character glimpses such an expression on their paramour’s face, but it does no such thing. Then again, fictional courtships never happen this way. Fictional courtships are full of big emotions—the good and the bad—and they unfold in dramatic ways in dramatic settings. A ballroom. A heist. Not a contrived meeting in the break room at work on a typical Friday.
But I don’t need a whirlwind romance. I only need easy and continuous access to a man’s body. Which means I need Brad Folger.
“Good morning, Mr. Folger,” I say, aiming for a light and feminine tone. Instead, my voice comes out flat. I’ve never been great at inflection. So I tack on a smile, unsure if showing my teeth would make it look more genuine. I alternate between the two before I settle on what I hope is a demure closed-lip grin.
“Good morning, Miss…Daphne.” I’m used to the pause he makes before saying my name. Unlike him, I don’t have a surname, which makes humans uncomfortable when we aren’t yet on a casual first-name basis. Surnames are a human tradition, so fae don’t naturally have them. Many fae choose surnames when they enter society, but I still haven’t.
“How is your day?” I ask, doing my best to maintain eye contact as is expected of someone engaging another in conversation. Locking eyes with another person is a sensation that makes my skin crawl when I’m not genuinely interested in assessing what I’m looking at. In the forest, prolonged eye contact is often a sign of threat. Why the hell do humans insist that staring deep into another’s eyes is polite?
From my periphery, I notice a bookworm inching across the long counter that spans the far wall and I can’t help but slide my gaze to it. They’re such cute fat little creatures, about the length of my foot and several times more rotund, with pearlescent white flesh and no visible eyes. Best of all, they don’t talk. I’d much rather snuggle its chunky silent body than chat with Mr. Folger, but he is the reason I’m here, not cuddly worms.
I pull my gaze back to him as he answers.
“It’s pleasant,” he says. “And yours?”
“Mine is…also pleasant.” Was that enough small talk? My fingertips flutter at my sides, drawing my awareness to my hands. What should my hands even be doing right now? Do I ball them into fists? Hold them straight and loose? Fold them at my waist? I opt for fiddling with the buttons on my waistcoat instead as I blurt out, “I’m ready to give you my answer.”
His eyes widen, then he tilts his head to the side. “About what?”
“Your inquiry.”
He shakes his head. “I’m…not sure I follow.”
Heat fills my cheeks. Did I take the small talk too far? Maybe I was being too subtle after all. “You asked me to join you for drinks. I said I’d think about it and I have. I would be honored to take you up on your offer. I like berry cordial and I’m free this weekend.”
A tittering laugh followed by a flash of movement snags my attention, but when I glance at the doorway, it’s only Araminta peering at me from around the corner. Thank the All of All she didn’t follow me inside.
I turn back to Mr. Folger with a hopeful smile, but the apology on his face crushes my expectations before he even says a word.
He folds his broadsheets upon his lap. His mouth opens to silence, as if he can’t find his words. Finally, he furrows his brow and speaks. “I asked you out for drinks two months ago.”
“So you do remember. What a relief. I thought you forgot.”
His expression turns apologetic again. “Two months may not seem like a long time to a fae with a lengthy lifespan like yours, but it can be for a human like me. I…I’m already courting someone else. No, to be fully transparent, I’m engaged.”
“Engaged.” I don’t know why I’m so surprised. Courtships progress quickly in seelie society, once two courting people set their minds on marriage. And Brad is right. Two months is too long to wait to answer a man’s offer for a date. I should have figured that out on my own. I flap my hands in a dismissive gesture, trying my best to maintain my smile. “That’s totally fine. But perhaps you could help me with something else. Would you, by any chance, model for me? Temporarily.”
“Model?”
“I need a male model for my illustration commission. If you haven’t heard, I’m illustrating the brand-new covers for Edwina Danforth’s Governess in Love series.”
“The, uh, sexy covers?” His complexion turns slightly green as he asks this. At my nod, he shifts uncomfortably in his chair. “Miss…Daphne, I’m afraid I can’t do that.”
“No?”
“No, because it would be highly improper. My fiancée wouldn’t feel comfortable with that, and neither would I. You and I hardly know each other.”
“That’s why I figured we’d go on a date first, but if you’re already taken?—”
“If you wanted to go on a date with me, you should have said yes two months ago.”
“Well…I wasn’t sure I wanted to.” The truth is, even though I find Brad aesthetically pleasing, I’m not personally attracted to him. Maybe it’s because I don’t know him. But isn’t that what dating is for? Whatever the case, my stomach turns at the thought of going on dates with people I’m not yet comfortable with.
His expression hardens, and too late I realize I’ve offended him. “Just because pureblood fae are incapable of lying doesn’t mean you should speak so bluntly. Regardless, it’s clear neither of us have what the other is looking for.”
“Right. You’re right. I should…go. I’m going to go. Good day.”
I rush out of the break room as fast as I can, resisting my desire to shift into my unseelie form so I can scamper off on four paws. Instead, I find solace by closing the break room door, placing some tangible divide between me and the man who just rejected me. Pressing myself against the wall beside the doorframe, I cover my face in my hands. I only hope no one is looking down this hallway from the editorial floor. I can’t bear to face a soul right now. The only thing that could make this worse is if Brad Folger ends his tea break early and finds me out here. As soon as I gather my bearings and regain the strength in my legs, I’m running back to the studio.
Araminta’s laughter circles my head. “That was so embarrassing.”
I’m about to utter a groan of agreement when a male voice shatters my every thought. “Tell me about it.”
Dropping my hands, I turn to find a figure leaning against the wall on the other side of the doorway.
I may have thought the only thing that could make this situation worse was if Brad emerged from the break room, but I was wrong.
This is the worst thing that could happen.
Because the last person I would have wanted to witness my humiliation is Monty Phillips.
“Hello, Daffy Dear,” he says with his most annoying grin, one that puts a dimple on full display. I blink, willing for him to disappear, for this all to be some awful hallucination, but his presence only grows more certain. My eyes sweep over him, taking in his navy suit, his loosened cravat, and the open collar of his shirt that reveals the base of his throat. His gray eyes glitter with mischief while his pale blond hair settles in loose messy curls around his face. He leans against the wall with an air of indifference, ankles crossed, one shoulder propped against the door frame. He holds a stack of papers under one arm and flips an unlit cigarillo between his fingers with his free hand—a habit I know well.
For a moment, it feels like nothing has changed. That we’re back where we were two years ago, managing The Heartbeats Tour together and forging a bond that felt at least a little like friendship.
My heart stutters and then starts into a stampede, emotions clashing within me. I don’t know what to process first. My embarrassment over what he just witnessed? My anger that he has the audacity to stand there so casually, as if we haven’t been estranged for almost a year? Or that tiny spark of excitement that leaps at seeing him again?
“What the hell are you doing here?” I snap. I’m surprised at how quickly the words leave my lips. There’s no thought. No need to rehearse the right thing to say. Probably because I’ve never worried about that with Monty.
His dimple deepens as a corner of his mouth lifts higher. “There’s that charming little spitfire I remember. Pray tell, who was that awkward woman in the break room just now?”
I shrink down. “Did you see the whole thing?”
“Every filthy inch.”
“Why do you have to put it that way?”
He chuckles. “I’ve never seen you like that.”
I doubt that’s entirely true. While I may not have trouble being myself around him, he’s witnessed a handful of uncomfortable moments. Maybe they were only uncomfortable for me.
“She was soooo awkward, wasn’t she?” Araminta says.
He tilts his head at the sprite. “Who is this? A new hire?”
“A pest,” I mutter.
Araminta curtsies in midair. “Lady Araminta of the Shining Waters. I’m Daphne’s best friend.”
Monty puts a hand to his chest as his eyes lock back on me. “Ouch, I see you’ve already replaced me, Daffy Dear.”
His words set off some dark sharp part of me. The hunter. The killer. The tiny beast with deceptively sharp teeth. It chews up every tangled emotion brewing inside me until only anger remains. I scoff. “Were you ever my friend?”
The hand that has been flipping his cigarillo goes still and his grin falters.
The sight reminds me of a small rodent catching the first glimpse of the shadow in the underbrush. The predator stalking its prey. It emboldens me. “I don’t know what kinds of friends you have these days, but mine don’t ignore my offer to catch up and then forget about me for a year, only to show up to laugh at me.” I fold my arms and turn on my heel, echoing the same cold words he said to me all those months ago. “Nice knowing you, Monty. See you around.”
Araminta lets out a low whistle, followed by her tittering laugh. “Wow, she hates you.”
A satisfied grin tugs my lips as I stride down the hall. Is this what it feels like to get the last word in? To be bold and brave and clever? To be?—
“Daph.”
I’m almost at the end of the hall when Monty’s voice roots my feet in place. It’s not merely him saying my name that makes me stop. It’s his serious tone. The edge of desperation in that single syllable. I’m still halfway in hunter mode, my senses attuned to easy prey. Monty’s voice triggers that awareness, urging me to strike the killing blow, but it no longer feels satisfying. Now it only fills me with guilt.
I keep my arms folded protectively over my chest as I turn around.
“I didn’t for—” Monty’s words are interrupted by the opening of the break room door.
Brad Folger steps into the hall, a startled sound escaping his lips as he finds Monty beside the open door. He recovers from his momentary fright with a look of recognition. “Ah, Mr. Phillips. It’s been a while. How do you do?”
Monty’s eyes remain locked on mine. “Fuck off, Brad. I didn’t forget.”
Brad blanches, his gaze swiveling from Monty to me and back again, before he scurries down the hall, shoulders hunched.
“I didn’t forget,” Monty repeats once Brad is out of sight.
Silence stretches between us, punctuated by the buzz of Araminta’s wings. She hovers in the air, gaze volleying back and forth much like Brad’s did, but without an ounce of his sheepish self-awareness.
The hunter in me lowers her defenses. “All right.”
He takes a step closer, his expression wary. Questioning. I’ve hardly ever seen him looking anything but confident. A corner of his mouth quirks, but it isn’t his usual dashing smirk. This smile is softer. Less sure. “I’m sorry, Daph. I was an asshole the last time we saw each other. Let me make it up to you.”
I squeeze my arms tighter, hoping I can hide how much his words soften my heart. “How do you intend to do that?”
He takes his stack of papers out from under his arm and extracts a fountain pen from his jacket pocket. I watch as he leans against the wall, tucking his cigarillo behind his ear and uncapping his pen with his teeth. My lips part involuntarily as my eyes narrow on what I can see of his canines. Why does the sight of them make my heart quicken so pleasantly? He scribbles something on the back of one of his papers, drawing my attention to the flex of his knuckles, the length of his fingers, the ease with which he holds his pen.
Were Monty’s hands always so…handlike?
He stops writing and thrusts the paper toward me, snapping me out of my reverie.
I accept the page and assess his messy scrawl. It’s an address for somewhere in town.
My gaze lifts to his. “What the hell is this?”
“I overheard what you said. You’re looking for a model, right? I have a solution that’s far better than anatomy classes or propositioning random coworkers. Go to this address tonight at nine.”
I shrink down, hackles raised. “This isn’t an orgy, is it?”
“What’s an orgy?” Araminta says, landing on my shoulder. “Can I come?”
“Why does everyone expect me to take people to orgies? No, Daph, it’s…better than that. Just trust me.”
“I’m not going to some unknown address alone.”
“Bring a friend.”
“I don’t…” I can’t bring myself to admit I don’t have many friends. None that live in town, at least.
Monty tucks his bundle of papers back under his arm and recaps his pen. Holding my gaze, he steps closer. So close I can almost smell the clean linen of his shirt.
I bristle, expecting him to pat my head the same way he did when we last saw each other.
Instead, he keeps his hands to himself. “I’ll see you tonight. We’ll catch up, all right?” He doesn’t wait for me to answer. He just winks and saunters off.
I frown as I watch him walk away. Even after he’s gone, I’m unsure what to make of everything that just happened.
I saw Monty again.
He was…nice to me.
And he has a solution to my model problem?
I stare at the address again, noticing the faint lettering coming from the other side. I turn the paper over and find the title page of a book called Ask Gladys: How to Play the Game of Love and Win.
I tilt my head to the side. Isn’t Ask Gladys a romance column in the Cedar Hills Gazette ? I know Monty works at the paper now, but I never learned what his position is. Whatever the case, this must explain why he was here.
What exactly has Monty been up to this past year?
A burning desire to uncover the answer takes root in me. I turn the paper back over, studying the address again. Wherever this place is, there might be crowds. Strangers. Socializing. Everything I hate and everything I’m terrible at.
But do I dare miss out on discovering what Monty’s supposed solution is? Courage and curiosity fight to overtake the terror inside me. But still…
“I’m not going here alone,” I say under my breath.
Araminta flutters from my shoulder to the paper in my hands. “Then I guess it’s you and me, bestie.”