Page 16 of A Fae’s Guide to Tactical Botany

She’d cast a shadow on the sand behind her. He was pretty sure ghosts did not cast shadows, even if he’d believed in them, which he didn’t. The sun had glowed in her green eyes and laid a soft gleam upon her flowing hair. Holograms wouldn’t be affected by the sun. And she’d trembled at his closeness, as if she felt him the same way as he did her, as if she—

He cut that thought off before it took hold. She very clearly did not want him, not his presence and certainly not his body. She had said so, over and over again, and it was 2023, when vibes were not enough to indicate interest. She didn’t want him at all.

What was important was, she was real. She was a real, infuriating, intoxicating pain in his ass.

And though he didn’t want to voice it, couldn’t jot it down in his notes, he was pretty sure she was magic.

He sat heavily on the Jeep’s tailgate, letting that idea bounce around in his head.

Magic.

He didn’t believe in magic.

But it was the only word that made everything make sense, made the puzzle pieces fall into place. The garden, the barriers, her. Everything. It was all magic.

And he sure as fuck couldn’t use magic as an abstract for a scientific journal. He probably couldn’t even get away with it on fucking TikTok.

So he just had to hope that whatever magic was occurring, it produced some sort of evidence that he could present as science. Something explainable, reproducible. Something that would convince the Dean of Physical Sciences to give a judicious nod, proffer a congratulatory pat on the back, and finally accept him into the hallowed halls of the tenured, rather than bumping him down to the fiery pits of adjunct faculty, or worse, the unemployed.

Ethan needed to know more.

And the first step to make that knowledge possible was more recon.

So he settled in his camp chair in the shade and sent his drone out again.

He wasn’t looking for her. He wasn’t. It was just that after he sent the drone over the path he’d intended to take—which was now mysteriously more blocked than he remembered—he caught a flash of what looked like her dress just a little to the south. And it was smart to keep an eye on what his enemy was doing, wasn’t it? He sent the drone closer.

Oh, god.

What was she doing?

He’d half expected her to be stalking back and forth before her army of radio-controlled prairie dogs, or digging defensive trenches, or planting iron spikes into the dirt. Boiling a vat of oil. Being the warrior queen he now knew she was.

Instead, she was lounging.

There was no other word for it.

She lay casually up against a mound of sand, her eyes closed, a faint, serene smile on her face. Her silken gown traversed her curves like ocean waves, and now that he wasn’t speaking to her—wasn’t caught in her green, green eyes—he could see that the silk was…not transparent, not really, but it clung to her every contour like…like… He couldn’t think of anything it was like but silk, which was stupid, wasn’t it? The silk clung like silk. But silk was a perfect word, a delicious word. Delicious as the contours of her swelling breasts, the hills and valleys and curves of her relaxed stomach. The skirts of her gown had somehow ruched up over her curving thighs, high enough that he felt suddenly guilty looking at her, even as he automatically sent the drone closer.

She’s not taking a bath, he told himself furiously. She’s not naked. She’s wearing more clothes than half of Tucson this time of year. And she’s the enemy. She might be up to something nefarious with her…her lounging, and her sighing, and oh god where are her hands going?

Where they were going was the curves of her breasts, and oh, he should recall the drone right now, he should, but he was caught up in the way her fingertips were tracing the edge of her gown’s neckline, dragging it down into the deep valley of her cleavage. He swallowed, shifted uncomfortably in his camp chair, sent the drone closer. He toggled the camera’s zoom until she filled the screen, his Diana.

Her fingers lingered in the shadowed crevice of her cleavage for a moment, pulling the fabric taut enough over her breasts to reveal every contour, but then she shifted, and one finger leisurely began to travel back up, dragging the silk aside further, baring brown curves, and the silk caught on her nipple—god, was it hard? It looked hard, aroused. The silk dragged at it, embraced it. He imagined he could see a hint of even darker skin peeping out from the edge of the fabric. Was she going to—? He should look away. He couldn’t. His mouth watered and he leaned in closer to the screen—

And her eyes popped open, gazing right into the camera.

She grinned.

And the image on the screen disappeared into grainy darkness.

Ethan jerked back as if he’d taken the blast of sand right in the face, adrenaline spiking through him. Holy fuck. He tried to recall the drone, pull it back, but it wasn’t responding. After a moment, though, the display screen cleared. It was pointed up at the sky, and then she appeared, leaning down into the camera’s field of vision. It spun crazily, until she was centered in the screen again. Her arm was extended, like she was taking a selfie.

Which was exactly what she was doing.

She was still grinning, her eyes wickedly crinkled. He could practically see the sparkle of glee, even on the tiny display. And her smile was… He couldn’t think of a word. Just that it was ten times as compelling as her rage, her queenly arrogance, even that hint of vulnerability he’d glimpsed earlier. Pure and unfettered. The sort of smile a man dreamed of evoking.

It seemed somehow familiar.