Page 33 of Touch

Love pokes her head around the man’s bulky form, tiptoeing into partial view with her hands clasped behind her back. “Don’t tell her my name,” she begs Andrew.

He clears his throat and makes a show of introductions, swinging his arm between them. “Georgie, this is… Iris,” he finishes, using the name Love had sarcastically offered last night.

“A female muse,” Georgie observes. “I’ve been trying to guess your mystery woman, and now I understand why I kept getting it wrong.” The matriarch’s welcoming expression seeks out Love but fails to latch on. “It’s nice to meet you, Iris.”

Feeling a surge of fondness toward this eccentric mortal, she curtsies. “Likewise.”

At Andrew’s raised eyebrows, Georgie scoffs. “Hon, we work in a world of stories. My mind’s got no problem having an imagination as radical as yours.” She winks at him, then returns to the register, the rush of meeting her fading too soon.

At Love’s inquiring gaze, Andrew murmurs, “Don’t worry. You could tell Georgie your record player has started predicting your future, and the superstitious dreamer in her would humor you. She’s a widow—used to be married to a playwright years ago. I think losing him made her retreat into fiction.”

Then Georgie’s a devoted believer in fantasy, which is why she’d sensed Love to begin with. It’s fascinating. Yet it’sonly intriguing because it’s harmless, because Andrew’s power of sight exceeds the capability of people like that woman.

“You’re lucky to have her,” Love admits. “It’s nice to have someone.”

Andrew leans in and whispers, “Stay here.” He disappears around the corner, then returns with a notepad, writes on a blank page, and angles the message toward her.

Just in case. That woman has ears for miles.

Love wavers. The enterprising mortal has stolen the initiative.

Why can I see you and no one else?

A predictable but not ideal question. To which, she compresses her mouth.

Aww. You don’t know either, do you?

Of course she knows!

You’re as stumped as me. You’re incompetent. You’re—

“You’re rare,” she says. “Only humans who’ve come close to the truth of my existence can see me. I suspect your writing has enabled this in some fashion.”

Disbelief grips his face.Forget how many artists and renditions of mythology have existed since the dawn of human kind, but you expect me to believe I’m the only fucking person who’s ever come remotely close?

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she amends. “Of course, some other humans must have gotten near to the truth over the ages. To that, I expect it’s a matter of luck that such a drastic case has been avoided, that those humans never crossed paths with a deity, the same way this planet has managed to avoid being struck by a destructive comet more than once. Consider yourself an anomaly.”

Andrew takes a moment to absorb this, then his attractive hand starts moving again.I guess that’s a compliment.

“Saying your eye color is striking is a compliment. What I’m telling you is a fact. Though, your eye color is indeed striking.”

And which of my books gave me this illustrious privilege of sight?

“I’ve yet to figure that out. The first book has yielded nothing of consequence, and you’ve written quite a few titles.”

I’ll need to double-check my backlist then. How long have you lived in the forest?

“For a long time, and no time at all.”

Is there one of you or millions?

“Yes.”

How amusing is it to mind-fuck me?

“I’ll tell you when I’m done.”

We could be allies.

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