Chapter 11
CHAPTER ELEVEN
YOUR INTENDED?
M y heels click against the long corridor leading from my office toward SPN’s courtyard.
The sound teases at the dull ache in my head, the result of a night with too little sleep.
After leaving Davis, I went into research mode to figure out how my book boyfriends ended up here.
The selfie Jackson sent this morning of him and the guys eating a stack of pancakes Owen made, confirmed that this was not a dream.
This is real, and I need to know why it’s happening. How often have I tossed a spare coin into a fountain? Or made a wish as I blew out a birthday candle? Yet, none of those came true. Why this one? I can’t help but think it’s something to do with SPN’s fountain.
My phone pings, halting my steps as I reach the courtyard doors. Jackson’s name flashes on the screen.
“Probably another selfie of something delicious Owen baked that I can’t eat,” I grumble, bringing up the messaging app.
Jackson: I’ll be by tonight to discuss Just Write.
Me: Just Write?
Jackson: That’s what I’m calling this real-life bachelorette thing you’ve got going on. I have so many ideas.
Me: Eyeroll Emoji. Knowing you, this will be an American Gladiator-style competition.
Jackson: Not a bad idea. I need to make sure whoever wins my sister is as much of a specimen of masculinity as I am. Someone to take care of you.
Me: First, BARF. Second, I can take care of myself. Third, let’s not subscribe to archaic gender roles.
Jackson: Fine, we could just put their names in a hat and have you pick. Leave it to fate.
Me: Don’t be ridiculous.
Jackson: Says the woman who accidentally wished three fictional men into existence. Tongue-Out Emoji.
Rolling my eyes, I slip my phone into my blazer pocket and head into the courtyard.
Nodding a smile to the only other occupants, I move to the fountain in the courtyard’s center.
It’s not large and fancy like the Trevi Fountain in Italy.
My research found limited information about SPN’s fountain.
Outside of some pictures from events, there appears to be no local lore or myths about this fountain or SPN.
The only fact about the fountain is that the building’s original owner, Miguel Carlos Domingus, had it constructed for his Scottish wife, Mary.
It was built in Plockton, Scotland, and shipped here in 1908.
It's a simple fountain with an oval-shaped base. The brick-like pattern around the base is made up of gray stone with uninterrupted thin white lines that almost glow in the mid-afternoon sun. A small statue of a woman stands in the middle. She’s reaching for something, droplets of water trickling from her outstretched hands.
The water falls int the pool, where its ripples almost obscure the bottom.
Almost, but not quite. Leaning over the edge, I squint at the empty basin.
“Where is it?” I whisper to myself. The lucky penny Doc gave me that I threw in is nowhere to be found. In fact, there are no coins. “There were coins here,” I mutter, scanning the courtyard as if it could confirm that fact.
The glittery stone drags my attention back to the fountain’s base.
Crouching, I trace my fingers across its smooth surface.
The thin white lines appear to be embedded in the stone, rather than something painted on or layered into each brick.
Brick may not be the right word. I know so little about fountain construction.
“What are you doing?”
“Eeep!” I startle, tumbling back on my ass.
“You okay?” Pilar stands above me, her dark brows ticking up with curiosity, a to-go cup in one hand and a small paper bag in the other.
“Awesome.” I offer a flimsy thumbs-up.
“This courtyard isn’t faring well this week.” She shakes her head.
I rise, swiping at my backside. “At least, nobody is hurt this time.”
“And thankfully that pencil skirt is stitched on you or else you may have given Mr. O’Donelly a show.” She winks, tipping her head to the two men sitting in the courtyard.
“Not complaining.” One of the men offers a salute before returning to his card game.
“Don’t be pervy, Mr. O’Donnelly, or I’ll make sure you get Judith for PT.” Shaking her head at the older man, Pilar turns her focus back on me. “What were you doing?”
“Checking out the fountain.” I smooth down my skirt, suddenly questioning its tightness over my shapely figure.
“Why?”
“Uh….” I flick my gaze between her bemused expression and the fountain. “I was curious about the stone. I don’t think I’ve seen stone like this.”
“It’s called wishing stone.”
“It’s what?” I say, my voice high-pitched.
“Wishing stone.” She juts her chin toward the fountain. “The uninterrupted line in the stone is calcite. Amateur geologists identify it as a wishing stone. The stones are supposed to grant wishes.”
“How do you know this?”
She shrugs. “One of the OG nurses from when this place first became a rehab/hospice facility told me. She was here as a patient the first year I took over for Doc. She had lots of crystals and stones.”
“It’s made out of wishing stone,” I say out loud, but it’s more to myself than to Pilar. Slipping my phone out of my blazer pocket, I immediately pull up my new best friend, Google. “Did she know anything else about the fountain? Like?—”
“Like does it actually grant wishes?” she almost snorts.
I look up, the dismissive smile slanting Pilar’s lips cautions me to not proceed. As close as we are, Pilar isn’t my “this could happen” friend. Ever the doctor, she’s about what she knows to be true, not what could be true.
With a shrug, I push my phone back into my pocket. “I was just curious about the stone. It’s…pretty.” The word comes out like a question.
“Pretty?” A silent laugh smooths her features. “How about we focus less on the fountain’s rock and more on the very attractive man with a rock-hard body who dropped this off for you.” She hands me the to-go cup and bag.
“Now who’s being pervy?” Mr. O’Donnelly snarks.
“Judith,” she threatens playfully, causing him to grimace and turn back to his game.
“What man…” The Peach scrawled along the to-go cup teases with an answer to my not-fully-asked question.
Belly swooping, I place the cup on the fountain’s edge and open the bag. Tucked inside is a small envelope on top of a plastic-wrapped muffin. Pulling out the envelope, I open it and read the card.
Peach,
This is such a small thing for all you did yesterday. Thank you for taking care of Pop and Nan. Captain Picard would approve.
Best,
Davis/Kenny/Whatever you want to call me
p.s. The muffin is from Meghan’s Munchies and is rated the number five GF pumpkin muffin in the US.
An obnoxiously large grin kicks across my face. Meghan’s Munchies is one of my favorite GF bakeries, which I mentioned to him last night at the brewery. Lifting the cup to my nose, I inhale the distinct aroma of Earl Grey tea.
“Just like Captain Picard.” I beam, thinking of our favorite Starship Enterprise Captain ordering it through the ship’s replicator.
“What’s with this starry-eyed look?” Pilar snaps her fingers, yanking my attention back to her. “Is there an actual contender for your heart? Someone to take you to your cousin’s wedding?”
“Uh…. No,” I say, my tone unsure.
Despite the flutter in my chest the gift caused, and Pilar’s suggestion of Davis being a contender, I have three actual contenders to deal with.
Three men who are here specifically to date me.
Three men who I owe happy endings to. Either one with me, or to help them get back to theirs.
Whatever that looks like or how I’m going to do that, I have no clue.
“Sure,” she says, unconvinced. “Can you at least tell me who this man is that you say isn’t a contender, but who makes you look like Pedro Pascal just strolled into the courtyard?”
“It’s Kenny,” I say slowly. “Who also happens to be Davis.”
“What!” Her amber eyes are saucer-sized.
I hold up the bakery bag. “I’ll tell you over this.”
The afternoon heat still lingers, making me loathe the short walk from my car to the carriage house.
Jackson’s car is parked behind Hope’s in the driveway, which will, no doubt, annoy Rem.
Though I’m sure that’s why he does it. Precocious is how we described juvenile Jackson, but at twenty-nine he leans into loveable asshole territory.
He’s the brother that is always there for us when we make a mistake, but he’s also the first to give us shit about said mistake.
“Rabbit!” Lars’s gruff voice greets me as I walk into the backyard, causing me to halt.
Jackson and Lars sit beneath the large patio umbrella… Arm-wrestling? Brow pinched, my jaw nearly hits the cobblestone path that loops through the backyard.
“Hey, sis!” Jackson waves with his free hand and then juts his chin at Lars. “You’re going down, Twilight.”
“Dream on, pretty boy.”
“At least you admit I’m prettier than you.” Jackson’s mouth slants into a lopsided grin.
What the actual fuck , I mouth. The last message from Jackson that came in before I left SPN said he’d see me at the house. I assumed that meant just him. Not Lars. Wait… Where are the other two?
“My lady!” Lord James drawls, causing me to turn.
“Good gravy.” My murmur is breathless.
Lord James saunters from my carriage house, his green eyes fixed on me.
His typical Mr. Darcy outfit has been replaced by a suit.
The way the navy fabric molds over his sculpted physique may be illegal in several states.
No indication of the balmy air mars his face, whereas sweat kisses my hairline and pools in unsexy places.
“The only thing more stunning than this day is you.” Reaching me, he takes my right hand, and lifts it to his mouth and presses a gentle kiss to my knuckles.
“Th…th…thank you,” I stammer. Shaking away the temporary dazed sensation caused by my sexy duke looking like the archetype for a billionaire romance male love interest, I spin. “Jackson, what are they doing here?”