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Verity is still flustered and seems determined not to look me in the eye. I know most humans fear looking at me directly, but it’s a misconception. Well, kind of. It’s not dangerous so long as I’m in a good mood. Her pretty brown eyes dart around, and her cheeks turn the brightest pink I’ve ever seen on a human. It’s fucking adorable.
“I’m … Oh, no. Please excuse me,” she says, trying to rush around me.
One of her feet catches on mine, clad in an Italian leather shoe, and she falls face-first into a lounge chair to my right.
My automatic response is to help her up. I almost have her on her feet, her face close to mine, when one of my snakes hisses at her. The poor woman screams and jerks away, falling on her ass this time.
“Fuck. I’m sorry,” I grunt. “I didn’t mean for that to happen. The snakes have a mind of their own sometimes.”
“No, no, no. This is not happening,” Verity mutters, her eyes everywhere but on my face.
She pushes to her feet, and all my snakes hiss at the same time.
“Why is everything trying to kill me today?” Verity shrieks before running off through the double doors and into the house.
I frown. Today has not been a good day for monster/human interaction. I’ll send her flowers and an apology. After the whole turning her to stone and tripping her situation, it’s the least I can do.
I spot Gerald again and wander over to him, ignoring the buzz of gossip and the pointed way several elderly ladies are looking at me. It’s not my fault Verity tripped, but it’s my fault she was turned to stone. Even if it was an accident.
“So, this Verity lady. Do you happen to have her number, Gerald?” I ask casually, trying not to react to how he’s staring at me like he’s suddenly realized I’m a monster.
Humans are a weak species sometimes, and they like to pretend that their monster friends and relatives are simply humans with weird skin colors, scales, or feathers. Or snakes for hair. Every now and then, they get a little reminder of exactly what makes us monsters—the “others,” as some like to call us—different from humans and get a little squeamish.
“Oh, um, yes, I’m sure Della has her information. I’ll run in and ask her for it,” Gerald says, rushing away as fast as his feet can carry him.
I smile despite my longtime friend’s sudden fears. I’ll soon have Verity’s number, and I’ll be able to call her. But how will I convince her to meet me?
A damn good question I don’t have the answer to.
chapter
three
Verity
I glare at the petrified bee, its every tiny detail captured in stone. I’m sure it would get compliments if anyone noticed it on my office desk. I should have thrown it out the window, but I kept it for some reason. It’s a rather beautiful shade of blue with veins of gold where the stripes would be. I know others would find it pretty, but I find it annoying. Mainly because it serves as a reminder of how that gorgon humiliated me at the party two weeks ago.
I poke at it, thankful it didn’t come back to life. It falls over, its tiny stone wings too heavy to stay upright. I assume it didn’t recover from the gorgon’s glare because it’s so tiny.
I frown at the bee and decide to put it in one of my desk drawers. Pretty it may be, but it’s still a humiliating reminder of how I nearly ruined poor Della’s garden party. Not that Della minded; she’s been nothing but apologetic about depriving me of my EpiPen. Still, my face burns with shame when I recall my spectacular display of hysteria and clumsiness.Not to mention my panties when I fell on my ass, and my skirt flipped up.
I’m about to pick up the bee and put it away when my phone blares with an incoming call. It’s an old tune, but it has always been my favorite. So much so that I’ve made it my ringtone. I’m pretty sure no one else my age still uses ringtones. They keep their phones on silent, carefully curating each call. But this isn’t just my personal phone, it’s my work phone.
I frown when I see the call is from an unknown number, but my clients’ parents often pass my number around. I’ve lost Adrian as a client since he’s graduated to an elite scholarly program, so a new client wouldn’t be a bad thing.
“Verity Rogers speaking,” I say, accepting the call.
“Hello, Verity,” a smooth, intoxicatingly deep voice says from the other end of the line.
My jaw nearly drops to the floor, not because of how attractive the voice is, but because I know immediately who it belongs to. That odious and obnoxiously handsome gorgon somehow finagled my number from the Lancasters. How dare he?
I gasp, ready to unleash a tart response on him before disconnecting the call.
“Please don’t hang up. I know you probably don’t want to talk to me, but give me a chance to apologize again,” he rushes to say.
For some unknown reason, I decide to give him that chance. “Okay. I’m listening.”
“I’m so sorry I accidentally turned you into a statue. And I, uh, have a job offer for you.”
