Page 8 of Touch

Andrew studies a particular passage while rounding a corner and collides with a female, knocking her armful of purchases to the floor. From a clandestine spot behind him, Love watches the pair. The creased paperbacks, as well as thephone the woman had been whispering into, litter the ground by their feet.

“Oh!” the female gasps.

“Shit,” Andrew mutters, squatting to retrieve the items.

The shopper is attractive, with a waterfall of honey blonde hair cascading down the back of her fur-lined jacket. A male voice bleats through her phone, which she swipes off the floor while saying, “I have to go,” and then, “No one” before hanging up.

Andrew kneels to help her collect the books. “I wasn’t looking—”

“No, it’s fine,” she insists, batting him from the novels, pink racing across her cheeks. The paperback covers display half-naked bodies in exaggerated sexual embraces under a full moon, with the men bare-chested and tattooed.

“Seriously, it’s fine,” the woman protests again, swinging her arm out and gathering the novels in one industrious move. She stands, clutching the books to her chest, and takes inventory of Andrew’s features as he gains his feet. “Oh, Andrew. Hey.” Her confidence grows back like a plant. “Wow. This is déjà vu. Are we destined to do this a lot?” she asks in amusement, her berry scent hinting at a friendly demeanor.

She’s easy to read. Yet for the second time, Love fails to comprehend Andrew’s emotions.

From what the woman has said, these two share a memory. But despite the recognition crossing his features, Andrew regards her with equal parts apprehension and politeness. “Right. Holly.” His attention dips to her ankle, his brows furrowing with concern. “You okay? How’s your—”

“My ankle’s fine,” she assures him. “It was an accident.”

“Still. I’m sorry about that.”

“No big deal. Seriously.” She tucks a lock of hair behind her ear, a gesture routinely associated with attraction, except it’s one-sided and tinged with guilt.

Unlike her, Andrew exhibits no signals that the feeling is reciprocated. If anything, his interest appears rooted in whatever transpired with her ankle. Although Love cannot sense any of this for certain, she’s adept at reading physical gestures and expressions. Unaccountable relief eases the grip on her archery harness. Meanwhile, Andrew grabs the book on mythical phenomena off the floor and dusts off the cover.

“Okay,” Holly draws out. “See you around.”

“Yeah. See you.” While she flocks toward the register, Andrew fixates on the book.

When the exit bell chimes a minute later, the matriarch pokes her head into the room and gives him a quizzical look. “Soooo, was that the woman?”

He glances her way and flattens his mouth. “Cut the shit.”

“Oh, fine. But she was looking at you like a tenderloin. One of these days, you’ll have to put someone in your fan club out of their misery. Either that, or people in this village will eventually resent you for ignoring them. The allure of mystery men and their secluded ways only lasts so long until others start interpreting it as superiority.”

“Keep threatening me, and these shelves will have to build themselves,” Andrew warns, tapping a neighboring bookcase.

“Misanthropic smart ass,” the lady calls out while returning to her post.

Replaying the scene bothers Love. Despite Andrew’s less than amorous response, she feels a renewed and unfathomable spark of rivalry toward that woman named Holly.

She investigates the fantasy romance section where Holly had come from. According to what the matriarch is reading,Andrew does not use a pseudonym, so it’s effortless to locate his books. Somewhere in these pages might reside the key to why he can see deities, a crucial aspect that has brought him close to the truth about her kind.

Plucking the first novel off the display, Love admires the cover of a blood-tipped arrow entwined with rust-colored roses and thorn vines, then flips to the back description, which piques her interest. The story is about outcast gods and forbidden attraction. Best to start here.

She grabs the book and shoves it into her coat pocket. By then, the sun has set, and Andrew is finished with the last shelf. As he shrugs into his jacket, the matriarch watches him out of the corner of her eye. “It’s dark. Slippery streets. You should have taken your truck, for once.”

“I’m fine,” he replies, tossing her a smirk. “Last time I checked, I didn’t live far away.”

“In this village, who the hell does?”

Love bites her lip, stifling a grin. She likes this woman, regardless of her disquieting reaction to Love’s proximity and the way she’d teased Andrew about Holly.

The woman points a finger at him. “Breezes, ghosts, and amorous fans. They could be out there. I’m a believer of the former and vigilant of the latter. I can’t help worrying about who or what’s following you, and apparently your coat has gone missing.”

“Someone else wears it better,” Andrew murmurs under his breath, the rasp in his voice tingling Love’s vertebrae, the wool of his coat brushing her skin.

“Then I presume your muscles outgrew the coat, which is probably on some donation rack as we speak.” The matriarch sighs. “At least tell me that temporary replacement is keeping you toasty.”

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