Page 68 of A Match Made in Error

My hands tighten into fists and begin to shake below the table as my mind involuntarily wanders to thoughts of bending her over and⁠—

No! This would ruin everything. I don’t want her. I can’t.

Also, what kind of asshole am I? I care about her, and she’s over there with a man who broke her heart, and I’m thinking about…sex? I should be locked in a cage.

Across the room, Poppy glances up.

Our eyes lock and my heart stutters.

Shit. I physically want her.

And for the first time since this ridiculous island festival began⁠—

I don’t feel like I’m pretending.

Poppy

Rodrick takes a slow sip of champagne before launching into a story about getting stranded in the southern provinces after accidentally boarding the wrong caravan. Somewhere along the way, it evolves into a tale involving a stubborn mule, a card game he swears he didn’t cheat at, and an elderly woman who threatened to curse him for insulting her stew. Against my better judgment, I laugh.

Really laugh.

Time has softened the sharp edges of him.

When we were younger, Rodrick tried so hard to be charming that he often forgot to simply be himself. Every smile had been calculated, every grand gesture carefully crafted to impress. But sitting across from him now, years and mistakes later, I realize that without the ego and performance, he’s genuinely easy to be around. Funny, even. He made me feel things once. Butterflies and anticipation and the dizzy hopefulness of first love. But he wasn’t easy. He wasn’t safe. He wasn’t the person I could sit beside in comfortable silence while folding napkins at the tavern after closing.

“So then she chased me out of the village with a ladle,” he says, grinning. “Which, for the record, feels deeply excessive over a comment about seasoning.”

I laugh again before instinct has me glancing over his shoulder.

Across the terrace, Angora eyes Riven, one elegant hand with stacked iron rings resting lightly on his forearm as she says something I can’t hear. Riven tips his head down to her to listen better before a laugh escapes him, warm and effortless beneath the lantern glow as he disregards his slowly burning skin. How can he not see she was always wrong for him? She is the least nurturing and considerate person I know.

Something unpleasant twists low in my stomach.

“You seem happier,” Rodrick observes, drawing my attention back to him. “Different. What’s changed?”

“Well,” I blink, “I moved to Fate’s Fortune.”

“The town obsessed with love?” His brows rise. “Makes sense how you ended up in the Festival then.”

I look around, eyes passing over dozens of people who didn’t sign up for the Festival and yet were here doing the Moirai’s bidding, nonetheless. I blurt out the question that first comes to mind without thought for how it would sound. “How’d you get here anyway?”

“Get this,” his eyes twinkle like he was waiting for me to ask, “I was trekking through the Faeling Alps when a handler of Fate stepped out of a snowstorm like he’d been there the whole time.” Rodrick swirls his champagne. “‘The Moirai request your attendance regarding an unresolved matter of the heart and a former beloved,’ he’d said.”

“Request?” I repeat skeptically.

Rodrick smiles. “I got the distinct impression it wasn’t a suggestion.”

“So, could you have refused?”

“Probably.” He takes a sip of champagne. “Didn’t feel like finding out what happens when you tell the witches who weave destiny to sod off.”

I snort. “Fair enough.”

“So how’d you get here?” He cocks his head. “Didn’t you swear you’d never leave your village?”

“I also used to think shadow fae were terrifying.” I pause, lips curving around my teacup. “Now, I mostly think they're annoying,” I reply with a laugh. “People change.”

His smile softens. “Seems like it’s been good for you.”