Danielle’s pulse kicked up a notch. “Warning about what?”
“Well, in relationships, it means you risk missing out on love.” She tapped the previous card. “Most likely, this experience left you feeling vulnerable, out of balance. Don’t rush getting to know this new person. True connection needs time and attention to grow.”
Danielle bit her lip. Zora must be in league with the matchmaking nonnas.
“Ready for the last card? Your future?”
Still nibbling her lip, she nodded. The third card featured a robed angel pouring water from one chalice to another.
Zora beamed. “Ah, this is a good one. Temperance. Sign of healing, of combining different elements to make something better.”
Danielle gulped and stared into the fortuneteller’s eyes—kind eyes, crinkled at the corners, sharp and knowing. A funny, fizzy sensation filled her chest. Must be all the onions on that Greek salad.
Chuckling, Zora wrapped her Tarot deck and placed it back in the drawer. “A skeptic would say that’s generic advice, right?” She leaned forward. “Doesn’t make it any less effective, though.”
Danielle nodded, squirming in her chair. Despite the mellow music floating from the speakers and the soft murmurs of customers, something about the dark little shop made her itchy to escape. Perhaps it was the figurines staring at her from the shelves: Buddhas, Ganeshas, Mexican sugar skulls, mischievous fairies, brooding wizards, snarling dragons…
She gave her head a little shake and drained her cup. “Well, thanks for the tea. And the wisdom.”
“My pleasure, dear. Come back if you have any questions. Or just to browse our crystals.” Zora swept a hand toward the glass counter where colorful stones rested in velvet-lined trays. “Chrysocolla is good for feminine wisdom and balance. Also good for musicians like you.”
Danielle spluttered. “How did you—?”
“Your nails are shorter on your left hand.” The older woman grinned. “Besides, I do yoga with Annie from the antiques shop.”
Danielle backed toward the door. “Guess I can’t expect to keep secrets in a small town.”
The soothsayer lifted a single brow. “No indeed. But in exchange for your privacy, you could gain a lot of love.”
Chapter Ten
Wednesday Evening
Fourhourslater,Daniellepulled up to a ramshackle Craftsman cottage the color of a motel swimming pool. An eclectic collection of beachy knickknacks lined the porch railing: starfish, hurricane lamps, fishing nets, glass floats, and painted terracotta mermaids. A wooden staircase led to an apartment above the detached two-car garage.
Blues music drifted through the open garage door, interrupted by the shriek of a power tool. The thought of Matteo’s hands mastering powerful machines set off a giddy tingle low in her belly.
In her rearview mirror, she straightened the silk scarf she’d folded into a headband, slicked on more lipstick, then blotted it.Stop dithering!She’d already had mind-blowing sex with Matteo, already spent a whole night wrapped in his arms. But after the fortuneteller’s predictions, she couldn’t shake the feeling there was more at stake here than a mere fling.
Eleven more days. Ridiculous, thinking they could last beyond that deadline. If she had the common sense God gave a goose, she’d throw her car into reverse and forget this vacation romance nonsense.
Matteo stepped into the open doorway, holding a power drill at his hip like some rumpled sci-fi hero gripping his ray gun—an impression that strengthened when he abled toward her, flashing that seductive smile of his. A worn concert T-shirt stretched tight across his broad chest, and paint-stained jeans clung to his muscular thighs. She forced her gaze up from the enticing bulge below his belt, back up to his dazzling smile. Pale flakes dusted the sexy scruff on his jaw. Sawdust? Might as well be stardust because she was powerless to look away.
He leaned an elbow on the roof of her car and grinned through the open window. “Ciao, bella. I’m glad you came.”
She boosted up to kiss him and darted her tongue into the silky heat of his mouth. His fingers tightened on the drill, making it whir.
“Careful, now.” Laughing, he opened her door. “High-voltage kisses and power tools—not a good combination.” He slung his free arm around her shoulders and walked her back to the garage. She squeezed his waist, and the drill whirred again.
“You’re dangerous, Danielle.” He set the drill on a crowded workbench, pulled a bandana from his pocket, and dusted off a metal stool. “Your throne, my queen. Welcome to my atelier. Also known as Sal’s garage.”
Filling one wall, sturdy metal shelves held tools, brushes, cans of paint and varnish, plus trays of drawer pulls, handles, and other hardware. Shelves along the other wall held table legs, boards, and window frames. Photos and sketches hung from a corkboard on the rear wall. In the center of the room sat a rusted garden arbor half-covered with driftwood.
Matteo pointed to the ceiling. “I live upstairs.”
“You don’t share the house with Sal?”
“We tried that, but he’s an early riser. Likes to practice opera while he makes breakfast. First time he blasted Nessun Dorma at six a.m., I nearly pissed myself.”
