“So tell me, Amelia.” Oliver stops, his voice taking on that low whispery quality that feels as though he’s saying the words right into my ear. Each syllable is a caress, a warm brush against my skin. His fingers skim the back of my hand, and my breath catches in my throat. His heavily-lidded gaze is both inquisitive and seductive—and completely mesmerizing. “What’syourtype?”
“M-my type?” I stutter, unprepared for this conversation to turn on me. The parade of people following us starts to catch up, and we are passed by groups who side-eye us with an equal mix of irritation and interest. All of them fade away, and for once in my life, I forget that I’m surrounded by people.
“Mm-hmm,” he hums. “You’ve been in Ashwood Haven your whole life and haven’t settled down with anyone. What is your type then?”
“I . . .” I start to answer, but the words trail off when I realize I don’t have one. I’ve gone out with most of the eligible guys my age in town and have only really gotten serious with a few, but none of them ever felt likethe one.So much so that when the last guy broke things off after almost a year together, I moved on in a matter of days. Not because I’m heartless, but because I already knew he wasn’t my Prince Charming, so why get all broken up about it?
That didn’t stop Grandma from buying me a breakup brownie anyway.
But my options have always been limited to the guys here, in Ashwood Haven—a small town with an already limited population. My type has always beenlocal, because that was my only option. It’s not like the bigger cities where a single person gets to flip through Tinder, looking for all the right attributes,because there’s a never-ending list of other singles waiting to be picked through.
“I don’t know,” I breathe.
Oliver leans closer until I can make out the individual streaks of iron gray and icy blue in his wintery eyes. Until I can pinpoint each strand of gold in his hair, catching the flickers of candlelight from the lanterns hanging forgotten by our sides.
“Well, maybe we should figure it out together.”
He takes another half step closer, and his nearness sends a shiver over my skin. My mouth goes dry, and for a moment, I think he’s going to kiss me. The very thought has me holding my breath until my lungs scream in protest. I bite my lip, willing my heart to stop pounding so hard with anticipation because I have only just met this man.
I have no reason to want his lips . . . his full, beautiful lips, on mine. No reason to be wondering if he’d taste like butter and berries and pastries. To wonder whether or not his limited number of relationships limited his experience physically, too. Not that it would matter because I’d be happy to teach him what little I know, and I’d be more than happy to learn whatever he’s picked up on his travels.
But . . . oh, hell, do I want him to kiss me. To cross that line with all these people around and take a chance on the little bookworm across the street.
Oliver reaches out, pushing a loose strand of black hair behind my ear, and traces a line down my jaw, sending tingling sensations everywhere he touches.
And then . . .
Every candle, every fairy light and lantern, flickers out, enveloping the forest in complete and utter darkness.
Chapter Nine
The forest is silent for a grand total of half a second before it erupts into chaos. Radios chirp, whispers turn to urgent words, which quickly devolve into shouts. It takes a few seconds for my eyes to adjust to the dark, the waxing moon overhead offering a limited amount of light to see by. It’s enough for some blurry shapes and gray-blue shadows, though. Even the solar lights along the edge of the path are out, making the trail ahead almost invisible.
One by one, phones are pulled out, screens lighting up streaks in the night. Flashlights pop up in scattered clumps throughout the trees, and actors prepare to herd everyone back to town.
Oliver’s hand finds mine in the dark, warmth melting into me where our skin meets. Deep in my chest, the magic stirs once again. Unlike the previous events, which swelled and crashed like a tidal wave, this is a slow simmer. The tension is building bit by bit, recharging, but for what, I don’t know. The prospect of anything else going wrong with the entire festival out in the middle of a dark forest is more than alarming.
I glance up at Oliver and wonder if he, too, notices the flow of energy coursing between our palms. As if to answer my question, he meets my gaze with an uneasy expression.
“Please tell me this is another one of your elaborate pranks that Stacy is going to flip over?” he says out of the corner of his mouth.
I shake my head. “That definitely wasn’t me.”
“Fantastic,” he mutters.
Around us, twigs snap underfoot and boots grind against dry leaves, but no one has taken the lead yet. If no one speaks up soon, people will start panicking. And then I remember with a sigh . . . I’m the host. So, I take a deep breath and amplify my voice as loud as it will go. The magic continues to build until it becomes static in the air around us, making goose bumps pebble across my arms and up the back of my neck.
“Everyone!” I shout, but my voice is drowned out by the growing roar of the crowd.
A whistle pierces the air, so loud my ears start to ring, and I realize it came from Oliver; one of those whistles that only basketball coaches and ’70s moms seem to do right.
“Everyone!” I try again, finally getting the crowd’s attention. “Please remain where you are. Our volunteers will be coming forward to help guide everyone out of the woods safely.”
The throng’s rumbling dampens to a hum. They are still uneasy about the whole thing, but their sudden panic has downsized to a containable concern.
Flashlights weave through the trees as the actors surround the long line of lantern walkers. Radio static and beeping underlay talking, and distantly, I hear, “Do we have them all?”
Beep, and then a staticky reply. “Yup. The Jenkins kid was halfway to the cottage, but we’ve got him back on the path.”
