Or the right person.
When he walks me to my front door, it’s after one in the morning. The August humidity lingers in the air, and a blanket of silence stretches over the moon-soaked street.
He reaches for my hand, holding it between us. “I had a nice evening.”
“Same. Thank you for taking me.”
As I pull away, I realize he’s not holding my hand. He’s gripping the ring on my finger, pinching it as if he wants to yank it off.
My chest tightens, and my brows pull together.
If you never take it off again, I’ll be the happiest man on the planet.
Cole broke his promise to me. He’s gone. I’m not beholden to the promise I made to him.
I straighten my fingers and slowly inch my hand back, away from the ring. But as the band slides over the first knuckle, Trace lets go.
My gaze jumps to his, but he’s already turning, striding back to the car where his driver waits.
Teasing and dodging. Connecting and missing. I swing right, and he steps left. I’m over the ballad of Trace Savoy.
“Hey, Trace?”
He pauses, glances over his shoulder.
“I just wanted to warn you.” I cock a hip.
“Yes?” He shifts to face me fully, hands clasped behind his back.
“I ordered this thing online called Her Ultimate Decoder, and it’ll be here tomorrow.”
“Okay,” he says slowly.
“It’s guaranteed to decipher confusing cryptic men. Hundreds of five-star ratings on Amazon support the claim.” I fold my arms across my chest. “Your evasive maneuvers are about to be exposed. Any last words?”
The shadows might be playing tricks on me, but I swear there’s a grin on his face.
He drops his head, shakes it slightly, then turns away with an unmistakable smile in his voice. “See you tomorrow night, my tiny dancer.”
The next morning, my sister wakes me at the ungodly hour of nine o’clock with my niece and her husband, David, in tow. I mentioned the previous day that the brakes on the Midget are screeching, and now she’s here to meddle… I mean, fix it. Or rather, make David fix it.
With the car up on jacks in the driveway, he stretches on his back beneath it, grunting and clanking tools. Angel squats in the flowerbed, stabbing Rollie Pollie pillbugs with a stick, while Bree and I drink coffee on the loveseat under the old oak tree.
Bree knows every quarrelsome detail of my time spent with Trace Savoy. After catching her up on the concert, I’m anxious to hear her thoughts. But the slaughter going on behind me makes my skin crawl.
“Tell her to stop doing that,” I say to Bree.
“Angel, leave the bugs alone.”
The hem of my niece’s cute sundress drags through the dirt as she drives the stick down over and over, chanting, “Die. Die. Die.”
“They’re just bugs.” Bree tilts her head, studying her daughter. “That’s normal behavior, right?”
A first-grade teacher is asking me—someone who’s never around children—what I consider normal?
When Angel was born, I thought it was adorable that Bree named her after our family name, Angelo. But if I knew then what I know now, I would’ve given her The Book of Baby Names: The Demonology Edition.
“Yeah, there’s nothing frightening about her at all,” I say dryly.
Bree slumps back on the seat. “Okay, so when you called Trace out last night for being confusing and cryptic, what did he do?”
“He shook his head and walked away, smiling.”
“The smile is new. Sounds like progress.”
“Progress? I thought you were against me getting involved with him.” I lift my coffee mug and find it empty. Damn.
“Jesus, Danni. You blew past involved when you stayed the night at his penthouse.”
I open my mouth to argue, but she sticks a finger in the air.
“Hold that thought. We need more coffee.” She grabs my cup and darts into the house.
Footsteps approach behind me, and I turn, staring into the large brown eyes of a demon.
Angel brushes a wayward hair back toward her pigtails and smiles a toothy fiendish non-smile. “I’m going to eat your head.”
“That sounds…complicated.”
“I’m going to put it on a stick and roast it and eat it with a fork.” She swishes the dress around her knees.
“If you eat my head, we won’t be able to have these creepy conversations.” I shudder.
She lifts a shoulder. “I’ll find other heads to talk to.”
Where does she come up with this shit?
I raise my voice toward the car. “Are you hearing this, David?”
“A little busy,” he yells back.
Yeah, but I know he’s listening, and that’s what I call denial.
Angel skips away, humming Hell’s version of A-Tisket, A-Tasket. I love that kid, but sweet lord have mercy, she scares the crap out of me.
“What’s that look for?” Bree steps out of the house and hands me a warm mug.
“I’ve changed my mind. There’s something really disturbing about your child.”
She blows on her coffee. “She’s just going through a phase.”
Is demon possession a phase?
“So.” Bree regards me, as if revving up for a scolding. “You don’t think you’re involved with this man?”
“I didn’t say that. I’m just not going to pursue a relationship with him.”
“Why not?”
“He doesn’t want one, not with anyone. Least of all with me.” My stomach hardens. “He sleeps around—
“You don’t know that.”
“I see him with women, Bree. And he said he never spends a night alone.”
“He told you that…like three months ago.” She props an elbow on the back of the loveseat, her sharp gray eyes looking straight through mine. “I think he’s waiting for you.”
“That’s ridiculous. Waiting for what?”
Her gaze drops to my engagement ring, and her voice softens. “For you to get over Cole.”
My throat goes dry, and I twist the band on my finger. “It’s been on my right hand since I met Trace.”
“Okay. But can you take it off?” She gives me a small, encouraging smile. “From what you’ve said, it seems to bother him.”
Without letting myself think about it, I work the ring off my finger and slip it into the pocket of my jeans. “There’s your answer.”
My heart thunders painfully, but after a few measured breaths, all is quiet.
“How are we doing?” She rests a hand on my forearm.
I resent the concern in her eyes. It reminds me of that godawful part of my life, the months that followed Cole’s funeral, when she repeatedly dug me out of the alcohol-induced abyss I numbed myself in. Which is why I’m also so fucking thankful for her. Every damn day.
“I’m good, Bree. But I think you’re off-base about Trace. He’s not waiting for anything. I mean, it’s not like he’s competing for my attention. Cole’s dead, and I’m here, single and available.”
“You’re single. But you’re not available.”
“That makes no sense.”
She eyes the mug of coffee in my hand. “Hold out your cup.”
“Why?”
“Just do it.” She guides my fingers to the handle and adjusts the position of the mug over a patch of grass. “Imagine that the cup is you, and the coffee is all your love for Cole.”