Page 15 of Touch

“No,” he insists. “You keep the coat.”

“I do not require warmth.”

“Humor me. I like seeing you wear my clothes.”

Treacherous pleasure flutters in her chest. “You’re a reckless creature.”

He jerks his head toward the lights of Evershire. “Then be reckless with me.”

Against Love’s better judgment, she huffs. “If this will convince you to stay away later, I suppose one evening won’t kill either of us.”

“And what exactly would kill me?”

“Coincidence. Poor timing. Irony.”

That’s what would have to occur for another deity to show up here. Love realizes how improbable that is.

“In other words, you’re operating on a hunch,” Andrew surmises.

“You will have to trust me,” she replies. “No questions asked.”

“Temporarily, I can live with that. I take it, you prefer to be called Love?”

“You sound dubious. Would you prefer Iris for my red eyes? Or Selfish Little Myth?”

He has fixated on her irises more than once, so it would be a fitting moniker. Yet at the mention of what he’d written in his note, humor tugs up one corner of his lips. “It’s just that Love sounds like a private name.”

“Ha. It’s the least private name in history. Though, it still belongs to me.”

The humor turns into a fully-fledged smirk. “I changed my mind. Selfish Little Myth suits you better.”

Insubordinate. Audacious. Fearless.

Patient but not meek. Naughty yet prudent. Solitary but adventurous.

And gorgeous for a human. Normally, this man would be her type.

Love finds herself staring at the mortal’s features for too long. By the same token, Andrew studies her in kind. His expression is gratified, evidently aware of what she’s thinking.

With a scowl, Love adjusts her archery. She flounces off ahead of him, unaware if she’s going the right way. With a masculine chuckle, he catches up.

Twilight puts Evershire to rest quickly. Doors have closed. People have disappeared from the sidewalks. As they cross through the main square, Andrew endeavors and fails to get information out of her. How long has she been dwelling here? Where does she sleep? Why is she alone? What’s the longbow for? Each question, she evades with finesse or outright refusal, then urges him to point out landmarks and supply Love with local trivia, if only to divert him.

That such a recluse speaks openly strikes Love. She’s never thought of this hamlet, or any place she’s been stationed in, as having its own soul. Yet Andrew knows how to tell a story and makes this village feel like a character in its own right.

They pass the gazebo; a man had constructed it for his beloved, then died of a broken heart after the woman rejected his grand gesture. There’s the teahouse, run by a pair of witchy sisters for the last forty years. And on another street is an old jailhouse that now functions as a museum.

Further up a hill, a bell tower tapers into the darkness. The instrument has the nerve to ring every evening at midnight. Routinely, Love hears the sound from her perch in the forest.

With the snow piled on the rooftops, the bell tower, and the gleaming street lamps, she’s aware of how mortals would view this ambience as romantic. Andrew’s words eventually peter out, leaving a comfortable silence in their wake. How unexpected to be walking beside a mortal, and to behave herself while doing so.

At the edge of the village, Andrew stops before a brick building and scratches his jaw. “So what can I ask about you?”

Love merely says, “I’ll let you know.”

“At least tell me where you live.”

“It varies. As we speak, I reside nearby.”

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