Page 27 of Touch

She has work to do.

And I shall prove it.

It’s a fine time to sharpen her arrows.

9

Behind a shrub on his property, Love crouches to the ground and taps the plume of her arrow against her chin. As much as she wants to complete this task swiftly—to strike Andrew and Holly with haste—matchmaking is a craft, which requires a tactful sleight of hand. She cannot breach their hearts without maneuvering the lovers into position. Not only must the targets know each other prior to the union, but they must also reach a state of mutual regard. Otherwise, they end up confused and anxious about their instantaneous connection.

Love’s weapons perch in her quiver, waiting to be used. Some myths claim that Eros carries two different arrows—one gold, one lead—to either incite ardor or extinguish it.

This is inaccurate. Iron is the only material for her.

Flipping her arrow, Love runs a thumb along its spine, its shaft inlaid with stardust. She’d practiced how to hold her archery before learning to use cutlery. The weapons have grown with her, the link as natural as the blood flowing through her veins.

What would it be like to relinquish her longbow? Would she miss an arrow’s whistle as she lets it fly, the vibration of the string, and the flash of light?

Love banishes the questions from her psyche. It’s pointless to dwell.

The first step is to explore Andrew’s life and how it may align with Holly. Beyond a second floor window, his shadowstalks through a bedroom suite. With a yawn, the mortal scrubs through layers of white hair and opens a dresser drawer.

Then he crosses his arms, grabs the hem of his shirt, and whips it off.

The breath drains from her lungs. Love’s mouth falls open, and her tongue dries like sandpaper. He’s sculpted beautifully, with an abdomen as tight as a lattice, his arms and shoulders rippling like rocks.

Love squirms, just as she had while reading the frequent erotic scenes in his novel. The pleat between her legs contracts, the folds of her pussy dampening. Her fingers sneak up her thighs, higher and higher, until Andrew drags a fresh shirt over his head, the movements bringing Love to her senses.

With a growl, she springs to her feet and marches across the snow. Closer now, she inhales the mint shampoo Andrew uses to lather his hair, the scent flooding her airways like a forbidden stimulant. She follows the thump of his footsteps hiking down the stairs, then rounds the corner to a back deck spanning the house, floor to ceiling glass panels offering a view of the custom kitchen.

Instead of an island, a dining table stands in the center beneath a metal and glass pendant. The fixture drenches the walnut surface in light, where a man hunches forward and slurps on his coffee. Ah, this is the relative Andrew had quarreled with the other day, then referred to as his stepfather.

The man wears a grease-stained jumpsuit the dispiriting color of mud, with a name tag sewn into the fabric, and his face is still as leathery as her first sighting of him. His eyes narrow to incisions and scrutinize Andrew, who steps into the kitchen in a sweater that clings to his frame and spends the next ten minutes frying two omelets. Eggshells crack, butter sizzles, and the burner hisses. Loading a pair of ceramic plates, Andrew drops one in front of the man, then sits across from him.

Love gazes at the pumping column of Andrew’s throat while he jabs a forkful into his mouth. At the vision of his lips in motion, a defiant noise of appreciation pushes against her teeth. She puts a leash on the sound, tugs it back into her chest, and wills herself to focus.

The interior is rustic but streamlined, with a mixture of old world pieces and warm neutral colors. Handmade crockery stands on the counter, and expensive curtains flank the high windows.

Andrew’s relative doesn’t touch the omelet. Instead, he grabs a butter knife and scrapes it over a burned piece of toast, which he must have prepared himself. Andrew’s teeth rip off a corner of his eggs.

The stepfather sips more coffee. Andrew spears the meal with his fork. Love shuffles behind another shrub weighed down by snow.

The coffee mug smacks the table. Love jumps. Andrew doesn’t.

The wraith waves a finger at the bruise darkening Andrew’s jaw. “You ever gonna tell me where that came from?”

“I woke up with it,” Andrew deadpans.

The man grunts. “You’ve been walking around here in a fucking daze and made me wait up for you. And shittiest of all, evidently you let somebody jump you.”

Andrew chews the omelet to a pulp, then swallows. “They tried.”

“Whatever. I got enough on my plate without you picking fights like some goddamn juvenile. If your ego isn’t big enough to resist a brawl, don’t bring the evidence home. You cause enough talk in this village.”

Love does her best to probe, but it’s official. Not only will her strength continue to ebb because of Andrew, but hisemotions are impenetrable. That ability faded shortly after they met, when his eyes had landed on her and sealed their fate.

To compensate, Love hunts through the stepfather’s senses. Surely this man harbors some concern about who tried and failed to harm Andrew. Unfortunately, the man’s feelings fluctuate too quickly to grasp, his emotions grinding together as if someone has stuffed them into a blender.

“Who was that woman?”

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