Page 49 of A Match Made in Error

“Someone’s tipsy.” I collapse on the bed. “My night was horrific. How was yours?”

The bed dips when he flings his body dramatically next to mine.

“Same. If I had to hear one more man describe a woman like she’s a horse at auction, I was going to start a fight.” He boxes with his shadows, throwing punches that move through them like a hot knife through butter. “What about you?”

“Not relaxing at all. They were fighting as if this is a competition where we are rivals.” I throw my hands up. “It makes no sense. Each of us could ‘win’ and still no one would lose.” I blow out a long breath, causing my hair to fan out. “When I think of girls’ night, I think of face masks and talking about boys while eating good snacks.” I grab my bag off the nightstand, looking for the bag of crisps I’d stowed away in there on the ferry ride and promptly forgotten about. Drinking makes me snacky. “They just wanted to fight and throw drinks.”

Riven rolls over, propping his head on one hand. “My pores have been looking a little big lately.” He shrugs and points suggestively at my toiletries kit. “I’ll have a girls’ night with you.”

I laugh, real and unguarded . That’s the most genuine thing that’s come out of me all day. “Really?”

“As long as you snap in jalapeño poppers, yes.” His face is painted in genuine want, like he’s just waiting for me to say yes. This. This is why we’re best friends.

“We’ll have to see what the Moirai’s kitchen has.” Since my magic has been limited to conjuring what is on the Isle and nothing more.

I kick my shoes off and tuck them under my legs, scooting closer to Riven until our thighs are touching. My pointer finger taps on the bed, and, in the blink of an eye, a serving tray covered in snacks and face creams appears. Including the poppers Riven is now looking at with hearts in his eyes.

The bowl closest to me is filled with a blue clay mask. The brush stuck in it is cool in my hands when I pick it up and poise my body in Riven’s direction.

“Hold on.” He grabs two poppers and stuffs them into his mouth before saying, “Paint me, baby.” His body rolls one more time, head resting on the pillow and eyes closing. His term of endearment sends my core tightening. Ignore it. This is how he is. An eternal flirt.

I start painting the mask on his skin, keeping the words Angora drunkenly said hidden behind my teeth. It would do no good for Riven to hear them. For his fears to be spoken into existence. That she got over him so quickly and also thinks so little of him. Or of me.

Instead, I start recounting other stories of the night. I tell him about the amazing food, thrown drinks, and ridiculous dresses the other women wore. He laughs when I mimic their voice and report the insults they spewed at one another. When I’m done painting his mask on, he does mine, taking the bottle of wine I snapped in by the neck and drinking straight from the bottle. I press my thighs together, an instinctive reaction as a bead of red wine gathers at his lower lip. It lingers there for a breath, catching the light, before slipping free. It drags a slow, deliberate path over the curve of his mouth and down along the pale line of his scar. My gaze follows it up until the moment his tongue flicks out, unhurried yet precise, and catches the drop just before it falls, sweeping it away with a languid ease that makes my pulse stutter.

I force away the thought of him dancing on stage at the beach that pops up. There’s something similar to the way his tongue moved that reminds me of the sway of his hips when he dances.

Afterward, we sit crisscross on the bed, drunkenly laughing.

“If anyone sees me like this”—he points to his face, covered in a dried clay mask, his cucumber-slice-covered eyes looking at me even though he can’t see me—“I’m blaming you.”

I snort. “I think your ego could survive this.”

“My reputation,” he slowly plucks the cucumber off his eye, taking one to his mouth and biting into it with his sharp incisor, “would be ruined.”

My laughter fades into something softer, a comfortable silence that is sliced by a quiet inhale when his bare knee brushes mine. Poppy, don’t be an ignorant wench. It’s a graze. He’s drunk and uncoordinated, and clearly it’s been too long since I’ve been intimately touched if I’m confusing this for that. His shadows crowd in, huddling around us like children joining their parents in bed.

His hand lands gently on my thigh, and I hold my breath.

“This is so much better than doe and stag nights,” he says, eyes closing as he settles in like he’s about to fall asleep. His arms open to me, an act he’s done a dozen times. I yip when his shadows push me into his hold, but then willingly settle my head on his shoulder.

“Yeah,” I sigh. “It is.”

Chapter Eighteen

RIVEN

“Poppy,” I croak, voice dry from drinking last night. I used to drink all night and wake up and rally with no issue. Man, I can’t hang anymore. It’s honestly embarrassing. “Poppy!”

“Shut up,” she groans back. The sound of quick, sloppy snaps pierce my ears. “Water and a healing tonic.” Snap. Snap. “Water and a healing tonic.” Then she groans. “Why isn’t the magic working?”

I snort and instantly regret it when zaps of pain reverberate off my skull. My hand, warm and steady, reaches up to palm my forehead. “I’m beginning to think we’ve been cursed.”

“I rebuke that.” She fakes a spit, warding off the bad energy of my words. I smile. Witches can be so adorably superstitious sometimes. “We’re not cursed. We’re prosperous and blessed.”

My eyes find the horizon. It’s late morning now. The sun is high, and I squint after looking for too long. A soft breeze rolls off the sea and into our bungalow, kissing my skin and making me feel a little bit more alive than I did upon waking.

Poppy rolls from bed, her pajama pants hanging low on her curved waist. Her tank top is hitched high on her abdomen, giving me a perfect look at the body Fate gifted her. Body, humor, intelligence, charisma, kindness. Talk about Fate giving in abundance.