Total pages in book: 119
Estimated words: 115860 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 579(@200wpm)___ 463(@250wpm)___ 386(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 115860 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 579(@200wpm)___ 463(@250wpm)___ 386(@300wpm)
“But some things only she would know. She says it’s too risky for her, for magickind, and for you. Mathias is ruthless.”
I grip the phone. I need that source…yet the witch’s physical and mental state is so fragile, I don’t dare push. Aquarius’s cousin is one shock away from a total breakdown.
The timing is shit, but I’ll have to press ahead with what I’ve got: the supposed magical book.
After I test it again, of course.
Aquarius and I ring off. I sink onto the edge of my bed, unstack the nearby books, and lift the little red volume at the bottom. I turn to the page where I wrote my previous fantasy.
The page is blank.
What the hell? I flip a few pages back and forth. Nothing.
When I arrived home from work yesterday, my words were still visible, mocking me for believing magic would deliver Caden to my bed. Now, my fantasy is gone. Disappeared. I peer closer, but I see no signs of a ripped page. No erasure marks. Just one perfect, pristine page after another.
Because my fantasy came true, is that the reason my words vanished?
No. There must be some logical explanation. Perhaps the pages are stuck together, or I’m not seeing the ink properly in this light or, heaven forbid, Caden found my scrawling while he was here last night and removed it without a trace.
Whatever’s going on, I must talk to Caden—and hope that he wants me regardless of what I previously wrote.
Before I lose my nerve, I grab a pen, then carefully craft a “sexual fantasy.” That is, if a fantasy of Caden darkening my door to have an honest conversation with me counts as sexual. I can’t resist adding a wish that he make love to me only if he genuinely desires and cares about me.
When I’m finished, I lower my pen with a sigh. Moments later, fresh ink appears on the next page:
Sleep, dream, anticipate…
The fantasy you imagine will soon be your fate.
My breath catches. That’s twice now the book has responded. That’s not typical; that’s paranormal. Which makes me wonder… Can my fantasy really come true again?
As I close the book, I have more questions… Is the diary capable of fulfilling emotional desires, not merely sexual ones? After all, I’ve asked for honesty, not pillow talk.
And since I’ve written in pen, I can’t erase the words. But honestly, I don’t want to. If this “fantasy” brings Caden ‘round so we can talk—and I can apologize—I’ll put the brakes on anything else until I’m certain our desires are mutual.
And if it doesn’t, then I’ll know.
The question is, how long will I have to wait?
Chapter
Twenty-Seven
After a basically sleepless night, I trudge into the office, lugging my briefcase in one hand and my extra-enormous coffee in the other.
It’s Wednesday. Technically, it’s the day before my next story is due to copy editing. Bloody hell, I haven’t even started the piece. I’m waiting on Caden.
Will the magical book work again?
“Morning, Syd!” Holly pops her head in my office, blond curls framing her face in a way other women pay hundreds of pounds to reproduce, her cupid’s bow mouth painted an eye-catching red.
“Morning, Holly.”
“You look like shit. Sleep more. If you’re losing some over Caden’s sacking, problem solved. Meet Zain Denzell.”
As if Caden could be replaced with just any warm body…
When Holly steps back, a man edges forward—tall, lanky, and scruffy. Zain isn’t as easy on the eyes as my last photographer, but that’s probably a good thing. He sports inky black hair, a scraggly goatee, a crooked nose, and an office-inappropriate T-shirt that says Wanted: Meaningful overnight relationship.
But his eyes grab my attention. They don’t seem to be any particular color, just a murky…gray? Brown? Hard to tell. But they’re sharp and dissecting. Zain is used to people underestimating him, and he prefers it that way, I suspect.
“Hello.” I round my desk and stick out my hand.
Zain approaches, something between a walk and a swagger, then takes my hand. He’s not a big man, but his presence is huge. Something about him prods my gut to be cautious.
Or maybe I’m just gun-shy after Caden.
“How do you do?” he says with a nod. “Pleasure.”
I can’t say the same. Zain’s deference seems a bit too practiced. “How do you do?”
He grimaces. “Too awkward? Sorry. I’m a loner. Not used to mingling with others, especially before noon.”
Holly claps her hands. “Great, now that the introductions are over, you two should spend thirty seconds forming a meaningful work bond, then start making me money.”
With that cheerful demand, Holly leaves, shutting the door behind her. I roll my eyes, and Zain laughs.
“Is she always that…”
“Brash? Absolutely. If you hear people talk about Cruella, you know who they mean.”
Zain rubs his hands together. “We still have a few moments; tell me about you.”
I perch myself on the edge of my desk. “I’m a reporter with deadlines who doesn’t have time for crap. You may not believe my stories. If that’s the case, I don’t want to hear it.”