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“Shelby?”
I blink back tears. Oh my God. Is this it? The impending breakup? I duck my head, not wanting him to see me cry.
“Hey.” He brushes his knuckles over my cheek. “I didn’t mean to yell.”
I risk a peek at him. He’s still tight with anger but love and concern also burn in his eyes. “I don’t want to break up.”
He frowns and takes a step back. “Where did you get break up from what I said?”
I shrug.
“Get over here.” He pulls me against his chest, stroking his hand over my head. “Break up? You’re not getting rid of me, woman.”
“Don’t stay because you think you have to protect me.” I snuffle against his shirt. “It’s not your job.”
He sweeps his hands up and down my back, soothing a little of the storm inside me.
“Shelby,” he says softly. “Why’d you go to breaking up?” He leads me over to the side of the bed and snaps on the table lamp.
I can’t form any words and end up uselessly shaking my head.
“I don’t like you thinking that every time we have a…disagreement or we’re angry with each other that it means I’m leaving you. We can talk and work through anything.”
I blink and turn over his words. Work through? Sure, Rooster’s gruff on the outside. But he’s always thoughtful and concerned about me. About us. But can I really trust that he won’t walk out the door one day and never come back without telling me why?
“I hate that every time we spoke on the phone and I asked you if you were okay, you didn’t tell me about the letters.” He taps his chest. “But I’m right here.”
“You’re still mad at me?”
“Not at you. Just the situation.”
“I didn’t want to make you worry. And it didn’t seem like a big deal.” I sniff and pull away. “At least, it didn’t until today. That was the worst letter by far.”
He hums in agreement. “Okay, so why would you think we’re breaking up after everything we did and talked about today?”
“It’s stupid.”
“Nothing about you is stupid. Tell me why you thought that.”
I shake my head. He’s going to think I’m even more ridiculous than he already does. “I keep getting certain cards in my readings.”
He blinks several times. Poor logical, linear Logan. “Come again?”
I roll to the side and grab the velvet bag I’d laid on the bed and pull out my tarot journal and deck of cards.
A muscle in his jaw twitches. I can’t tell if he’s trying not to laugh or if he’s about to blow a gasket. He slides one leg on the bed and turns to face me.
I flip through the notebook until I find what I’d written about the first reading that plunged this shaky sensation into my heart.
He leans over and studies the page. “What’s this one?” He points to the Devil card I’d noted on the side of the page.
“It was a jumper card.”
“What the fuck is that?”
“You know, when you’re shuffling a deck and a card or two pop out?” I flip through an imaginary deck of cards in my hands to demonstrate. “I’m a slow shuffler, so that doesn’t usually happen, but that time it did. And it’s happened two more times since then. Same card.” I stop my frantic rush of words and take a breath. “It’s freaky as shit, Logan.”
He scrubs his hands over his face and through his hair. “I don’t believe this,” he mutters.
“I know you think this stuff’s stupid—”
“Here I’m worried I triggered some abandonment issue you’ve got over your dad walking out on you, but you’re letting some pretty pictures on a deck of cards guide our relationship?”
“Abandonment issues?” I sputter. “I don’t have abandonment issues. And you’re not that much older than me, so don’t you go sayin’ I’ve got daddy issues either.”
He snorts and then laughs.
“It’s not funny.” I shove him, and he falls to the side, still laughing. How dare he think I have abandonment issues. I got over my father leaving years ago. Didn’t I?
A few more chuckles spill out before he finally stops and holds out his hand. “Can I see your booklet?”
“What? No. Why? You don’t believe in this stuff anyway.”
“But you do, so let me see if I can help you.”
I don’t know whether to hug him or smack him. “Why? So you can mansplain my cards to me?”
“Fucking hell. I can’t win tonight.” He leans over and scoops his phone from the nightstand.
“What are you doing?”
He snatches my journal off the bed and studies the open page for a second before typing on his phone. “Googling it.”
“Googling what? You can’t google tarot readings.” I tap my chest. “They’re guided by intuition and inner wisdom.”
“Everything can be googled.” He grabs a pen and paper off the nightstand and scribbles down his own notes. “Each one of these could mean one of a thousand fucking things,” he grumbles.
