Page 21 of Playing With Matches
“They reached out to my agent,” Isla offers. “I really had no idea what to expect, but she seems to think it will be good for book sales.” She shrugs noncommittally, but I note the tension in her shoulders and wonder if the stakes are higher for her than she’s admitting.
“Such a shame, we could have flown down together this morning if we’d known,” I say.
“Maybe,” Isla says. “But I actually flew in late last night. I had an early meeting with my agent before coming over here. I’m completely knackered.” Isla admits. “I’m just glad the selection process is done.”
“May the best man win,” I hold out my hand to shake.
Isla cocks her head at me. “But it’s not supposed to be acompetition, is it?”
“Isn’t it?” I raise my eyebrows, thinking about what Rob said to me when he pulled me aside. We need the juxtaposition of old vs new to highlight how much more effective my methods are. Plus, her readers are the target market for the show. And my app. They might like reading escapist fantasies, but they have to live in the real world. I just hope she doesn’t come off looking like too much of an ass at the end of it all.
“You know what?” I pull my unshook hand back. “You’re right. It doesn’t matter whose methods prove most effective. We’re both doing this because we want to see those people happily matched, so what does it matter how it happens?”
“I’m so glad you said that. I totally agree,” Isla smiles and finally holds out her hand to shake mine. Her hand feels warm, soft, and small in mine. I turn it over and pass my thumb over the large opal in her ring, half expecting it to throw sparks at me, like I’d imagined it doing yesterday.
The stone is lit with neon pink, orange, yellow, and blue fire beneath the milky surface. I wonder if it’s her birthstone. It seems soher. Mysterious and bright at the same time. “I’m relieved this didn’t get more adversarial.” Isla squeezes my hand, and we release each other.
“Me, too,” I agree. “And I’m satisfied with our choices.”
Two out of the three of those potential couples have great odds, based on my software. So what if that one couple hasn’t got a prayer? I consider today a win. “I thought the casting director was going to start smacking our hands with a ruler,” I say. “Think she’ll watch the show?”
“No way,” Isla says. “I think she’s more likely to watch the Westminster Kennel Club show in its entirety.”
“Seriously,” I chuckle, “she couldn’t get out of here fast enough.”
“Iwasbeing serious,” Isla smirks. “She’s a dog person, not a people person. She should be casting canines instead of people.”
“You got all that from sitting in the room with her all afternoon?” I ask, spinning myself around on my seat, enjoying the release after the tension of the last few hours.
“No, I got that from her Corgi tote bag and the amount of dog fur on her pants. Amongst other things,” Isla smiles enigmatically.
“Okay, Madame Fairfax,” I say, playfully, “what’smyfortune then? Read my tarot cards or whatever it is you do.” I wave an invisible magic wand at her.
A shadow crosses her face. “No can do, Jackson. That’s not how it works. I’m not a fortune teller. I don’t do readings on demand, and I don’t get to pick and choose what I’m shown.”
“Right,” I say with exaggerated patience. “Then just make something up. You’re a storyteller. It’s all the same thing isn’t it?”
“No. It most certainly is not.” She shakes her head vehemently, then looks at me sadly. “Though I do acknowledge it can look and feel that way at times. Especially to people who are closed-minded.”
“I bet,” I nod, feigning sympathy. “Sounds tough.”
Honestly I’m not sure what else to say. She’s talking nonsense. It’s like when my sister tells me a certain shade of purple istoo grape. Or when people think they know what their pets are thinking.
My hand automatically goes to the tiny green medallion on a gold chain at my throat. Murphy was the exception of course. He was the goodest good boy and highly advanced. He was smart enough to communicate with humans.
“Don’t patronize me like that,” Isla says. I stop spinning on my chair. She glares at me and squares her shoulders. I could swear her hair fluffs up. She runs a hand through the wild mane. Then she rolls her eyes dismissively and stands to pack up her things.
Shit.
“Isla?” I say, tentatively.
She glances up disdainfully. Her lips are pursed, and her eyes are still narrowed. I’m speared by her gaze, and there’s an aching lump in my throat like I used to get when I was a kid. It happened whenever I would say the wrong thing. Which was often.
Why am I so mesmerized by her? She turns her back on me, but I can’t stop staring at the back of her head, my mind grasping for something, anything to say to bring back that easy camaraderie of five minutes ago. Can I pull up a funny video on my phone? Impress her with my ability to make an annoyingly loud horn out of a single sheet of office paper? Gah!
I’m like a nerdy little Sebastian the crab, scuttling around, scrabbling for dinglehoppers to impress Ariel the mermaid with. And, of course, I’m also dying to kiss her.
WTF actually?
