I’m lying, though I don’t want to admit it to myself.
I had a whole kaleidoscope of butterflies fluttering in my guts a few months ago. It happened when I walked into the Grumpy Stump axe-throwing bar and caught Dean Riley kissing my little sister. They said they were pretending, pranking me. But I knew. I just knew without a doubt, then and there, that they were made for each other. I knew it even before I ran their profiles through my app.
I still have no logical explanation for that. I can only chalk it up to knowing them both so well. I must have internalized the algorithm. It’s possible that I’d already been running the data on a subconscious level.
“You are in rare form,” Emily shakes her head disapprovingly at me. “Don’t pay him any mind, Isla. He’s always a grump, but he’s not usually this bad. Did you wake up on the wrong side of the bed today, Jackson?”
“Or maybe you found a lizard in your sheets?” says Chelsea, rudely referencing my childhood phobia. I ignore her.
Emily’s right. I know I’m being a dick, but I can’t seem to make it stop.
I shake my head. “I’m working on a headache. Do you mind if we take a raincheck on coffee? I’ve got some out-of-town meetings tomorrow. Maybe we can all meet up later this week?”
“I’m afraid not,” Isla is watching me, guardedly. “I’m leaving tomorrow. I’m visiting with my editor in California, and I also have a few meetings and events to attend.”
“But hopefully you’ll be back in the fall?” Emily says. “It’s glorious here when the leaves are changing.”
“I’ll try,” Isla smiles warmly at Emily. “I’d love to see the leaves, but more importantly I’d love to see more of you and Blaze. I always knew you two weredestinedto be together.”
Destiny. Ugh.
“On that note,” I toss a bill on the table, trying not to flinch as I glance back at Isla, “I hope you enjoy the rest of your travels stateside, Isla. Meeting you has been brilliant. Perhaps our paths will cross again.” I slide to the edge of the circular booth and stand to go.
Isla holds out her hand palm down, and I take it a little reluctantly. I’d rather just get out of here. Is this a European thing? Palm down? I’m not sure whether she expects me to shake it or what? Am I supposed to kiss it?
Fuck, this is awkward.
Isla has neon purple fingernails, and she’s wearing a large opal ring that’s shooting iridescent sparks at me. Maybe I’m supposed to kiss the ring? No, that’s royalty. But there is something vaguely regal about her.Fuck it.I bend forward, holding her hand firmly and raising it to my lips. Isla’s eyes don’t stray from mine. Twin blue beams pulse over me, like the shiny blue beacons on top of a patrol car that's about to pull me over. No turning back now.
I pause before I plant the lightest, most feathery kiss across her snozzberry-scented knuckles.
And that’s when I feel them. Fucking blue butterflies. Not just in my stomach. I can feel them all the way down in my goddamned balls, too.
isla
“The odds that you will marry someone who can’t figure out the right way to load the dishwasher are far higher than the odds that you will find your soulmate. I say, plan accordingly.”
~ Jackson Porter, Playing with Matches Confessionals.
“I’m sorry,”my agent shifts a pile of folders to the other side of her desk. “I wish I had better news.”
“Oh well,” I exhale. “I wasn’t holding my breath.”
“Tissue?” Sylvia, my agent, holds out the box with a practiced air and a steady bicep. It’s obvious that her tissue arm gets more of a workout than her cork-popping thumb.
“That’s okay. I’m okay. Really.” I stand and walk to the window, blinking back tears as I stare out at the cityscape. The LA skyline is fuzzy and hazy, either from the marine layer or smog. And the palm trees look suspiciously fake, like set dressing. No matter how many times I’ve come here, I’ve still not managed to look at the palm trees and accept them as a natural part of the landscape.
Sylvia places the box back on her desk. “Movie deals are overrated, Isla. Half the time they buy the rights and never make the movie.”
“I know,” I concede wistfully.
“Let’s talk about the reality TV show instead. You’re so fun, Isla. Everyone is going to love you. Your adorable British accent and your whole quirky psychic act… and who knows, maybe you’ll meet someone special yourself?”
“I think I’m actually supposed to be the one setting the couples up,” I say.
So much for this conversation passing the Bechdel test.
I have been writing women’s fiction novels for close to ten years now, and yet this is where the conversations always seem to drift. Even with my agent. Maybe it’s because I write romantic fiction? Would people be less openly concerned about my single status if I were an archeologist or a city planner? It’s not like I don’t have a social life. I just haven’t ever seen any of the relationships sticking. And then there’s the Fairfax curse - a truth even stranger than the fictional account ofThe Mystic Matchmaker.
