Page 13 of Accidentally Engaged
“I love to read. Big, big fan of Terry Pratchett and R.A. Salvatore. I gotta be honest, though—I never liked marmalade. It’s too bitter. I prefer strawberry jam. Or raspberry. The raspberry jam you get in Ukraine is like, on another level from American jam. Do I sound like a snob?”
“No. A foodie.”
She says foodie in a way that could melt lead. The heat and the admiration in her voice are just...
“I need to go get some water,” I choke out. I also need to turn on the ice maker and direct it directly into the front of my pants.
“Marmalade is my cat,” she calls as I turn.
“You have a cat? I love cats! Look what I just did.” Thoughts of water are temporarily forgotten, and I whip out my phone to show her the Adopt-A-Pet app I just put on it. “I’m looking for a cat or dog. I had a dog—but my ex kept him. And the house. Said it wouldn’t be fair to take him away from the big yard and make him live in a little apartment while I’m at work all day.”
Chloe nods, and with a cautious, lingering side-eyed look, she says, “You know what I like about owning my own shop?”
“Hm?”
“I can bring my cat with me to work every day. I could probably bring a dog, too. A well-behaved one.”
Is she hinting like I think she’s hinting?
The rosy future fantasy of us heading out to work every morning snaps into place so hard my glasses fall off. The dog and cat trot out to her car and hop in the back. He looks like an Irish setter, just tiny. The cat’s an orange tabby. We kiss at the car doors, her with the pets on her way to work, me with—
A little girl on my hip and a diaper bag on my shoulder. Taking the baby to daycare. She doesn’t go every day, but she goes a couple times a week. Sometimes she’s with Chloe at the store, or I work from home. Sometimes my parents babysit.
How do I know that?
I feel lightheaded in the best way possible. What the heck is happening? Was that a daydream? Sleep deprivation? Can banshees see the future or something, and if they can, do they project little bits of it onto their spouses?
“Jen Chambers, the vet tech at the university’s vet program? She was telling me that there’s this older lady out on Ridge View Way, all the way down, almost out of town—and she does fostering and rescues from puppy mills. Lots of pure breeds that are underweight or not quite good enough with their markings to make show dogs? I bet she’d have something for you.”
“I want an Irish setter,” I announce firmly.
Chloe laughs. “To match your Irish banshee bride?”
“Um. Well, no, but... But do you ever get a picture in your head of something, and it seems so real?”
She nods vigorously, pale hair flying around her blushing cheeks. “Yeah. That’s been happening to me a lot tonight.”
“Me, too. If that lady has an Irish setter puppy... I’m calling it—your song was fate, and I approve. At that point, I’m afraid we’ll have no choice but to accept the scientific validity of the betrothal song.”
“What if there isn’t an Irish setter?” Her lips purse into a Puckish grin.
“That’s okay, too. We’ll say that it was a variant of the experiment.”
Chloe and I nod at each other. Her arms are crossed over her middle. Mine shift nervously from the back of my neck, to jamming in my pockets, to adjusting my glasses.
I have no chill, man. None.
“I should have just gotten to know my neighbors. Maybe then we could have gotten to this point naturally, like over six months,” she mumbles, looking guilty.
“Isn’t your magic a natural part of you? It’s not like you take magic vitamins or get your magic added in at the magic salon... is it?” I ask, suddenly nervous, because what if that is how she does things, and that’s what’s perfectly expected for banshees?
“No,” she chuckles. “Okay, it is natural, but we could have taken our time.”
Hoo boy. Cards on the table time? “I’m fine with a fast track to happiness—if this really does make us happy, Chloe. I’m serious. I’m thirty-eight, I’ve already had one broken heart, a lot of bounces from university to university, research team to research team... I’m ready for the best part of my life to begin, and I’d like it even more if my gorgeous, magical neighbor was the cause of it.”
The philodendron on my table sprouts a flower, a waxy, cone-shaped beauty that’s coral pink and wrapped around a long, cylindrical pistil.
Blushing petals. Erect tubes.
