Page 3 of A Match Made in Error

“No,” I say, turning away so he won’t see the smile I can’t stop. His ego is amusing, but I’ve also watched it get him into one too many bad situations. He’s my best friend, and I hate seeing him hurt. “But, I suppose, you’re tolerable when you’re not being scolded by your girlfriend.”

He makes a noncommittal sound and waves his hand. “So, why do you want to leave early anyway? Are you on your way to sign up for the Festival? Coming down to the wire this time.”

I snort, avoiding his knowing gaze by digging through my purse. Where did I put my house keys again? “Nope. I told you I’m not signing up this year. I don’t need love. I’ve decided I’m fine without a soulmate.”

“You’re cute when you lie.” Riven stands, his body heads taller than mine and twice as wide. Fae heritage, combined with a lethal military training regimen and a dozen raw eggs every morning for breakfast. “Terrible at it, but cute.” He boops me on the nose, a warm, snarky, and slightly flirty gesture that perfectly showcases our friendship.

“Riven, please.” I pivot too quickly, my boot slipping on the polished oak floor. Wind whips my hair from its braid as gravity sends me careening to the floor. I close my eyes, wincing in wait of the impact that never comes. The world lurches, the roar of the fireplace and the low hum of chatter blurring together, and then strong arms wrap around me, stopping my fall with infuriating ease.

Heat. That’s the first thing I register. Then my body clocks the rough scrape of Riven’s palms under my cardigan, warm through the thin fabric of my shirt. I feel the solid breadth of his chest against my back. His shadows tuck in, helping him cradle my body as if he needs the assistance. He’s well accustomed to holding swooning maidens. And, finally, the faint smell of cedar smoke and citrus bitters clinging to his clothes pulses in my mind.

“Careful there, trouble,” he murmurs, voice brushed with a smile. “I’ve got you.”

“This is fine. I’m fine.” I cover my face with my hands. “I didn’t need dignity anyway,” I say, though my pulse has lodged itself somewhere near my throat. When he doesn’t immediately right me, I peek through my fingers and look up.

From this angle, my body half-dipped, half-cradled against him, Riven looks really unfair.

His face is above mine, framed by the soft golden lamplight of the bar, turning the edges of his hair molten. A few strands have fallen forward, brushing his brow, making him look less like the polished, cocky bar owner and more like the soldier he used to be—the one in the painting behind him with too-young eyes and a blade in hand.

His jaw has a light shadow, darkened by stubble he didn’t bother to shave before opening tonight. His lips are parted, just slightly, from the effort of catching me.

His gaze pins me. A bright, mischievous amber normally, but now…up close…it’s warmer. Softer. A little stunned, maybe.

His hands are strong and confident at my waist, holding me as though lifting me is effortless. His breath brushes the side of my cheek, warm with the scent of cloves and whatever syrup he taste-tested behind the bar before Angora’s arrival.

He smiles, tilting his head just enough that the lamplight kisses the sharp cut of his cheekbone.

“See? I’ve always got you.”

“I said I’m fine,” I huff. Riven is always too ready to play the hero. Forgetting I’m not his to be saved.

“Mm,” he hums, steadying me on my feet but not quite stepping back. “You always say that after almost face-planting and letting me swoop in to save you.”

I elbow him lightly, attempting to push out of his reach, but he holds on. “Maybe I wouldn’t need saving if you cleaned your floors better.”

“Oh, absolutely.” His voice goes faux-solemn. “Clearly the floor is the problem, not someone being distracted.”

“Distracted?” I scoff, wrapping a scarf around my neck like it’s a noose. “By what?”

He lowers his head, just enough that I feel the ghost of his grin against my temple.

“Don’t know,” he whispers, “entering the Festival perhaps?”

Finally, he lets me go, fingers lingering a second longer than necessary, leaving my skin tingling in the space he’d occupied.

“Don’t blush. I like it too much.”

“Close your mouth before more nonsense leaks out,” I snark. Riven is too flirtatious for his own good. And mine. He could make a marble column weak at the knees, but it’s never sincere. I’ve been a first-hand witness to this truth for three years now. “You have a girlfriend. Stop flirting with anything with a pulse.”

“Yeah, I have a girlfriend, not a wife.” I pin him with a withering stare, knowing he can already hear my lecture on respecting women that he’s been subjected to time and time again. He groans, body pitching backward like a tantrum-prone child. “I flirt as a coping mechanism. Let me cope. Besides, I only flirt with you.” He winks and smiles. He’s reckless with his smile. It should be illegal for one man to weaponize dimples like that.

I take a dramatic step away. “Removing myself from the general vicinity before Fate decides to strike dead the liar before me.” I brush myself off. “The Festival is for lovesick fools and chumps, and I am no longer either.”

He doesn’t laugh. Or grin. He…hesitates. If there is one thing years of friendship with Riven have taught me, it's that he’s only quiet when he is worried or danger is near. And I don’t see any axe-wielding ogres nearby.

“What?”

“What?” he mimics defensively.