Page 16 of The Temptation of Truth
I freeze.
She called me babe.
Mabel Rossi, drummer for the most famous band on the planet, called me babe.
My heart starts racing again, but this time it’s not from fear. It’s from...I don’t even know. Something I can’t analyze right now. My answering laughter is awkward, but I try to act like she didn’t just make me dizzier with one little word.
One little word that means absolutely nothing.
“Oh. Right. Sorry. Thank you.”
“Anytime.” She leans forward, that small smile still affixed to her lips as she whispers to me, “And you don’t have to apologize for apologizing, either.”
Instinctively, I open my mouth to apologize again, but she arches a brow, and I snap it shut.
“Much better,” she says, and her smile grows, stretching across her face and making her caramel-colored eyes crinkle at the sides.
I don’t know when she took her sunglasses off, but I was correct in my earlier assumption. Thick black kohl lines her upper lids, flaring out into expertly drawn wings. She’s calm, collected, and looks like she just stepped out of a magazine.
“Are you always this composed?”
The question slips from my lips before I can stop it, and my eyes widen. Thankfully, she laughs.
“Only when other people are around,” she says, her voice low, like it’s a secret. Her answer gives me pause, but then she turns on a charming smile that halts all deeper thought. “Hi. I’m Mabel.”
“I’m Aurora.”
“It’s nice to meet you officially.”
“You, too.”
I realize as I look at her that there’s green drawn under her lower lashes, giving her an almost ethereal appearance, and I find it difficult to look away. When my chest starts to tighten, though, I drag my attention back to my planter.
“You’re getting some color back. That’s a good sign. For a minute there, you were white as a ghost.”
“Yeah, well, for a minute, I thought I might end up a ghost, so it’s fitting.”
Her musical laughter brings a small, pleased smile to my face, but I keep my eyes on my orchid. I don’t trust myself not to make it weird.
Her thumb brushes over my wrist, reminding me that I’m still holding on to her, so I release her forearm and wrap myhand back around the planter. The ceramic cools my palms, but her warmth doesn’t disappear. It sinks deeper into my skin.
“So anyway. The orchid.”
“Hmm?”
“You were telling me about your orchid before takeoff.”
“Oh. Right. My orchid.”
I sit up straighter, grateful to be back in familiar territory. I can talk about plants. I’ll just pretend she’s one of the ladies from church and not some famous, gorgeous rock star, and it will be fine.
“So, this is Phalaenopsis, also known as a moth orchid. It’s the most well-known of the orchids. This one will be pink when it reblooms. It was my mom’s, but it’s been resting...wait...” I turn to face her. “How did you know this was an orchid? There are no flowers. It’s just stems and leaves.”
Her smile quickens my pulse.
“I know a bit about orchids. I had a guardian who liked plants, and she loved orchids.”
“A guardian?”
