Page 43 of Book Boyfriends
“Thanks,” Davis addresses the bartender, but his stare remains tethered with mine.
“We should eat.” Releasing his hand, I spin the chair and pick up my sandwich.
He follows the action. “Here’s to stories with happy endings,” he says, lifting up his grilled cheese in an almost toasting fashion.
“To stories with happy endings.” I mirror his action, fighting against the quiet voice inside me that reminds me that there are three men whose happy endings I stole. Whatever this is with Davis, it’s not fair to Owen, Lord James, and Lars. Something I need to remember.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
YOUR INTENDED?
My heels click against the long corridor leading from my office toward SPN’s courtyard. The sound teases at the dull ache in my head, the result of a night with too little sleep. After leaving Davis, I went into research mode to figure out how my book boyfriends ended up here. The selfie Jackson sent this morning of him and the guys eating a stack of pancakes Owen made, confirmed that this was not a dream.
This is real, and I need to know why it’s happening. How often have I tossed a spare coin into a fountain? Or made a wish as I blew out a birthday candle? Yet, none of those came true. Why this one? I can’t help but think it’s something to do with SPN’s fountain.
My phone pings, halting my steps as I reach the courtyard doors. Jackson’s name flashes on the screen.
“Probably another selfie of something delicious Owen baked that I can’t eat,” I grumble, bringing up the messaging app.
Jackson: I’ll be by tonight to discuss Just Write.
Me: Just Write?
Jackson: That’s what I’m calling this real-life bachelorette thing you’ve got going on. I have so many ideas.
Me:Eyeroll Emoji.Knowing you, this will be an American Gladiator-style competition.
Jackson: Not a bad idea. I need to make sure whoever wins my sister is as much of a specimen of masculinity as I am. Someone to take care of you.
Me: First, BARF. Second, I can take care of myself. Third, let’s not subscribe to archaic gender roles.
Jackson: Fine, we could just put their names in a hat and have you pick. Leave it to fate.
Me: Don’t be ridiculous.
Jackson: Says the woman who accidentally wished three fictional men into existence.Tongue-Out Emoji.
Rolling my eyes, I slip my phone into my blazer pocket and head into the courtyard. Nodding a smile to the only other occupants, I move to the fountain in the courtyard’s center. It’s not large and fancy like the Trevi Fountain in Italy. My research found limited information about SPN’s fountain. Outside of some pictures from events, there appears to be no local lore or myths about this fountain or SPN. The only fact about the fountain is that the building’s original owner, Miguel Carlos Domingus, had it constructed for his Scottish wife, Mary. It was built in Plockton, Scotland, and shipped here in 1908.
It's a simple fountain with an oval-shaped base. The brick-like pattern around the base is made up of gray stone with uninterrupted thin white lines that almost glow in the mid-afternoon sun. A small statue of a woman stands in the middle. She’s reaching for something, droplets of water trickling from her outstretched hands. The water falls int the pool, where its ripples almost obscure the bottom. Almost, but not quite. Leaning over the edge, I squint at the empty basin.
“Where is it?” I whisper to myself. The lucky penny Doc gave me that I threw in is nowhere to be found. In fact, there are nocoins. “There were coins here,” I mutter, scanning the courtyard as if it could confirm that fact.
The glittery stone drags my attention back to the fountain’s base. Crouching, I trace my fingers across its smooth surface. The thin white lines appear to be embedded in the stone, rather than something painted on or layered into each brick. Brick may not be the right word. I know so little about fountain construction.
“What are you doing?”
“Eeep!” I startle, tumbling back on my ass.
“You okay?” Pilar stands above me, her dark brows ticking up with curiosity, a to-go cup in one hand and a small paper bag in the other.
“Awesome.” I offer a flimsy thumbs-up.
“This courtyard isn’t faring well this week.” She shakes her head.
I rise, swiping at my backside. “At least, nobody is hurt this time.”
“And thankfully that pencil skirt is stitched on you or else you may have given Mr. O’Donelly a show.” She winks, tipping her head to the two men sitting in the courtyard.
