Page 46 of All's Fair in Love and Blackmail
Aurora would chew you up and spit you out.
Me
Indeed she would.
Also—where are these questions coming from? Are you only asking me this because Cyrus is being a big baby and worrying?
Poppy
Cyrus is currently unaware that you exist. He’s deep in a research hole. I’M the one who’s worried.
India is perfect and I adore her, and I’m worried she’s going to fall for you and you’re going to break her heart—kindly, but break it nonetheless.
Me
You don’t need to worry.
Girls like India don’t fall for guys like me.
Poppy
???
Felix? Come back. Explain.
ME
Gotta go, sorry. Later Poppy!
I wouldn’t sayit’s a lie, what I tell Poppy the next evening before I head over to pick up India. India clearly has no problem putting me in my place, and she does seem immune to my many charms.
But…
I guess that wasn’t always the case? What a crazy thing to imagine—a version of India Marigold wholikesme.
I shake my head, grinning, and ignore that funny feeling still trying to poke its head up. Then I grab my keys and head out the door. I went back to the Pretty Page yesterday and took some better photos, which I showed to Herb today at work. He liked them a lot, so I’ll do something similar for the rest of the sites we visit. I’m excited to check out Crow Point, partly because I want to make progress on this piece but also because it seems like a cool spot.
I love a good scenic outlook.
It’s a warm evening, more humid than normal, so I roll the window down to get a bit of a breeze as I drive. When I pull up to the house where the Marigold women live, I park in front and call India.
“You here?” she says as soon as she picks up.
“I’m here,” I say. “Which you would know if you were waiting by the door, breathlessly excited to see me, desperate to spend time with the most handsome man you’ve ever met—” I pause at the little click I hear. “India?” Nothing. I blink and hold the phone up in front of me.
She hung up. Unbelievable.
I’m still grinning when she climbs in the car two minutes later.
“You might need a bigger SUV if you keep feeding that ego of yours,” she says conversationally as she pulls the door shut behind her. Her hair is in a high ponytail today, and she’s got on a t-shirt and jean shorts that show off her tanned legs and arms. Her fingernails are black, I notice, and a quick glance at her sandal-clad feet shows me that her toenails match. A warm, faintly spicy scent enters the vehicle with her—her perfume, I think she said when we were taking Betsy to the shop—and I inhale, curious. There’s something floral in there, and something sweet, but with an edge. Cinnamon, maybe, or pepper?
“What are you looking at?” she says, and I startle.
I’ve been staring at her, like a weirdo, lost in thought trying to figure out her perfume.
“You smell good,” I say dumbly. “Sorry. I was trying to figure out what I’m smelling. It’s sweet but—sharp?”
“Good nose,” she says as she buckles. “Yeah, it’s got cinnamon and honey and rose. And some kind of wood, I think?” She shrugs. “Anyway, let’s go.”
