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“I’m Kayla, by the way.” She blows me a raspberry, and I stare at her. “Now give me your hand.”
“My hand.”
What the fuck?
“Here.” She reaches for it and pulls it on the table, turns it palm up. “Don’t you want to know your fortune?”
And here I was thinking I’m the only crazy person here. Somehow the realization isn’t as comforting as I thought it’d be.
“No, I don’t wanna know,” I snap and pull my hand away.
Or try to. She’s holding on to it like it’s her paycheck. “Oh come on, don’t be like Ocean. You’d think with that name and those dreamy eyes he’d be more open-minded.”
Despite everything, a snicker escapes me. “Yeah well, I doubt he chose the name, or the eyes.”
“He can choose his actions, though.”
“Maybe he doesn’t fucking believe in hocus-pocus.”
She tsks. “He doesn’t have to believe in that. Just in me.”
“Why should he?”
She’s tracing her fingertips over my palm, and it tickles. Shit, don’t know how I found myself in this position, and why I haven’t gotten up to go yet.
Seems to be typical of my life of late.
“Why should he what?” she asks.
“Believe in you.” I lean forward and slam the bottle down on the table.
“Because I can read his fortune.” She doesn’t flinch. “Why else?”
Damn. “You’re crazy or you’re drunk.”
“Or both, like you.”
My breath goes out of me. “What did you say?”
Her eyes, a warm coffee color, don’t lift from her examination of my palm. “You heard me. That’s what you think, isn’t it?”
“What are you…?” I have to stop and draw a shaky breath. “How?”
“I observe people.” This time her eyes do flick up to my face. “Some people think reading one’s fortune is magic. Others think it’s tricks. But to me it’s intuition. Empathy. Clues in your expression, your gestures, the things you say or do. The things others say you do.”
“So you scam people, is that it?”
“Relax, pretty boy. I won’t foretell your wedding or your death, and I won’t ask for money.” She strokes my palm and looks down at it again. “Besides, you don’t need me to. You know who you want to have babies with, and you’ve died already once, so what difference would it make?”
I snatch my hand away, curl it into a fist and scramble to my feet. “The fuck.” I’m suddenly, irrationally scared of her. “Screw you.”
She can’t know these things. She’s making it all up—how? Empathy she said, intuition. Asking other people.
I turn to go. Someone must have told her. That’s it. Scamming.
But nobody knows these things but me.
“Shane.” She’s standing in front of me, short and a bit chubby, her blond hair a tousled mess. “I’m sorry if I upset you. Your life line was cut at one point, and as for love… I’ve seen how you look at Cassie. There’s nothing wrong with you. You’re not crazy, not even drunk.”
