Page 29 of Fairy Godmothers Aren't Cheap

“Which is,” he asked dryly, undoubtedly going along with the conversation for my amusement. Did I mention he was the best?

I leaned forward, layering drama into my voice. “What is wrong with James Backstrohm?”

“Excuse me?” He actually looked a bit insulted. “I like to think I’m pretty great.”

“Yeah, yeah, you present well. But it still all begs the question.”

“Why I’m not married?”

“Yes. And why is that? What is your fatal flaw? Webbed feet? You secretly gaslight your girlfriends behind closed doors? Hmm?”

He choked on his shake, his brows pitched together in clear mental pain. “Do I look like the kind of man who’d do that?”

“Maybe.”

He glowered at me, but there was no real heat.

“For all I know, you’re insecure about your webbed feet, and afraid your girlfriend’ll tell the world and then you’ll never work in this town again because everyone’s too freaked out to hire you.”

He snorted, his lips curving upward.

But, again, the shifty eyes. I pressed against the picnic table, reaching for his hand. His was warm, unlike mine, which was freezing—even though I’d stopped holding my shake a long time ago and had been keeping my hands tucked in the cuffs of my jacket. “Tell me.”

“My feet aren’t webbed.”

“You turn into a werewolf at every full moon? You secretly believe in fairy godmothers?”

I held my breath in case he said yes to the last one and had vital, useful information for me.

“Have you ever been engaged?”

Wait. What?

I scoffed, confused by his question.

Me? Engaged? Not even close. My hand slackened its grip on his. “Wait. Have you?” I gasped and gripped his fingers so tight he winced. He had! “When? What happened? Tell me everything.”

He slipped his hand out from under mine, leaned back, the tips of his fingers hooked between the table’s slats. He let out a slow breath.

“What was she like? Why did you break up? Come on, tell me. We’re friends, right? I mean, you already told me you don’t have webbed feet and you’re not a werewolf. This is a cakewalk.”

His eyes flicked up to meet my own, then flashed back to his milkshake, which he snatched up and took a long pull from. His was chocolate. Not strawberry, like mine.

So, not quite the perfect guy. But not worth tossing back into the sea of eligible men. Especially if we were both still single at age thirty-five.

He set down his milkshake. “I’m sorry about the necklace.”

“The necklace?”

“Yeah. I knew it was expensive. I just thought you’d really like it.”

Oh. The one from the museum. “I do! I love it. I…” I shrugged, feeling that annoying pinch of not having as much cash as I wanted. “And hey buster! I see you trying to change the subject!”

He gave me a cute grin that was half mischievous and half apologetic.

I lowered my voice, leaning forward in hopes he’d dish about his breakup. “Did you get the ring back?” How big was it? Did he plan to give it to someone else? What did men do with returned engagement rings, anyway? “Are you still on the rebound? Was tonight’s date to break your rebound cherry?” How did I not know this about him?

He sighed and rolled his eyes, but I could see he didn’t mind me asking. Not truly. “It’s been a few years, Char.”

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