Page 60 of Touch

“I should be troubled since you’re a specter, and this isn’t going to end well, but that’s not my style. I live too much in myhead for that. Plus, these days, lots of people have as many deep relationships online as they do in the flesh. And I’ll tell you what, there are plenty of fictional characters who’ve ruined my life.

“I’m keen on making sure my guy’s happy. That’s the problem, Iris. From one day to the next, he’s gone from grinning like an asshole to brooding as if someone has cut out his heart with a dull knife. It’s not a good look for him. He’s already been dealt a rough hand, and he pulled himself out of it—for the most part.”

Her voice thickens, as if she’s trying to speak around a lump in her throat. “Do you know what it’s like to lose someone you care about, Iris? I’m not talking about a breakup. I’m talking about really losing someone out of nowhere. A person who’s irreplaceable.”

No. Love does not know what that’s like.

Georgie does. Andrew had said she’s a widow. It shows in her downturned lips and the lonely glint of her wedding ring, which Love never noticed until now.

In reply, Love pinches the candlewick between her fingers, dousing the flame, guessing that’s how it feels. Like a light disappearing from inside her.

“Yep. It’s almost like that but not quite,” Georgie acknowledges, a thread of grief in her words. She grabs a matchbook and relights the candle, the fire bursting to life. “I take it no one’s ever been that important to you.”

Love wavers, uncertain whether to feel lucky or tragic.

The woman tosses down the matchbook. “No one deserves to know that anguish, although we all inevitably go through it. Andrew is my lifeline; it’s been that way since he was a kid. Used to come in here and browse the books for so long, I finally caved and gave him a job.” A wistful grin tilts her lips. “He likes to say this shop steered his fate, made him love fantasy enough to write about it. Because of that, he maintains this placefor me. Can’t stop him from repainting every chipped surface and upkeeping every shelf. I’ve tried, but he insists.”

The matriarch sobers. “I don’t want Andrew to suffer because you left without a word or did something worse. He’s carrying enough loss on his shoulders. My guy can be a snarky pain in the ass, I know that. But he’s a noble, snarky pain in the ass. He’ll treat a woman right, and he deserves somebody who’ll care about him just the same, so whatever your business here, make sure it’s the decent kind. I have a pitchfork in my closet, right beside my fabulous shoe collection, and I’m not afraid to use it.”

Love resists the urge to hang her head. A human is lecturing her, admonishing Love as if she’s an average woman. The feeling is unprecedented and intimidating, yet it drains her of apprehension.

She recalls the forbidden notes Wonder had written to a human man, in addition to the consequences that followed. The visual of Wonder’s mutilated hands should alarm Love. Such ramifications should prevent her from picking a blank leaflet of paper off the counter and stealing Georgie’s pencil from behind the woman’s ear.

It doesn’t. This won’t change the outcome of Love’s mission. She merely wants the chance to win this woman’s approval.

Yet how to proceed?

I’d like your blessing to be his friend…No.

I ask your permission to be his friend…No.

Fates. Andrew would tease Love, saying she’s terrible at this.

Honesty about her feelings is unwise. If it were harmless to reveal, Andrew would be the first to learn what resides in her heart. She needs an alternative, words to promise what he means to her.

The instrumental melody drifts from the speakers. In the candlelight, Love summons her fortitude and writes. Georgie watches in amusement as Love finishes and then slides the leaflet across the counter. Stepping back, Love folds her hands behind her, respectfully awaiting the verdict.

I will take care of him.

The woman chuckles. “If Andrew has his way, he’ll take care of you more.”

Love delights in this moment, knowing a repeat performance is unlikely.

“You’re excused,” Georgie says, grabbing the paper and dumping it onto a stack of hardcovers. “Oh, and forget these edits. Ain’t nothing but inventory records.”

Love’s mouth parts, then curls into a grin. Clever mortal.

21

Of all places, he stands outside a clothing shop window, scanning the garments inside. This mortal is looking too sinful for his own good, a navy sweater accentuating the bulk of his shoulders. With more time at her disposal, Love might grow obsessed with those muscles, now that she has seen them bare while he slept, among other indiscretions she’d committed.

Nearby, two of her former matches nuzzle each other against a light post, the male as slim as a broomstick and the female sporting ombre-dyed hair. That’s how it could be for Love and Andrew. She could be a real woman sidling up to him, doing something flirtatious to get his attention. Instead, she pretends by fixing her hair as she heads his way.

At the last minute, eagerness gets the better of Love. She halts at his back, rises on her toes, and peeks over his shoulder, her reflection in the shop window catching him off guard.

“Christ,” he hisses, whipping around, his back hitting the glass panel.

People slow their pace, tossing him glances as they pass. Love should have announced herself first, for she hadn’t meant to startle him. Despite her invisibility, she feels the sharp thrust of the crowd’s attention upon Andrew. Even more potent, the battlefield of conflicted emotions—desire, disillusionment, devotion—waging a war across his face as he stares at her.

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