“I think I might be in love,” Olly declared, getting into Jem’s car. They didn’t normally ride together, but on this fine summer evening, they were driving to Pasadena to see Madame Layla—a fortune-teller Jem swore by. Jem was a little nutty.
“The guy at the demo counter?” Jem asked. “I saw you two flirting. What happened to the other guy you were in love with last month?”
“Dale?”
“The musician.”
“Oh, Russ. He was a lousy tipper, so I had to let him go. It’s a deal breaker, I’m sorry. I can’t spend the rest of my life embarrassed about my cheapskate partner—waiters make most of their money from tips, you know.” Truthfully, the problem was deeper. They had no sparks. Olly wanted sparks. Fuck, he wanted fireworks. Was it too much to ask?
Unsuspecting of Olly’s secret desires, Jem badgered on. “Aren’t you a little young at twenty-two to be planning for the rest of your life?”
“Nuh-uh. In a few years, I’ll be as old as you.”
“I’m twenty-eight!”
“Yes. Almost thirty. You’re so lucky you hooked Nick before you turned into a wrinkled old pumpkin.”
“I think you have your fairy tales mixed up.”
“You’re calling me a fairy?”
“If the kettle fits,” Jem riposted, and they snickered. “Why do you think this new guy will work out any better?” he went on.
“Well, the contents of his shopping basket were promising—lots of fruits and veggies and a pound bar of dark chocolate.”
“So you’re planning to build a relationship on your shared love of organic produce?” Jem had a way with words.
“No, the chocolate! A giant bar of dark chocolate. Voracious, yet restrained.”
“Or just likes baking.”
“That works too.”
They drove on in silence as Jem struggled to get out of Hollywood at the onset of rush-hour traffic. Finally, they made it onto the freeway, and he circled back to the topic of Olly’s romantic life. “So what was wrong with Dale? Did he fart in bed?” Jem asked.
“Don’t be silly, everyone farts in bed. It’s the sign of a sound relationship when you fart in bed when together. Hey, does Nick ever fart, pull the blanket over your head and yell Dutch oven?”
“He doesn’t yell anything.”
“But he does the rest?”
Jem rolled his eyes. “Yeah. How did you know?”
“It’s such an alpha male thing to do, and Nick’s the quintessential alpha.”
“Yeah, he is, isn’t he?” Jem said dreamily.
To keep himself from gagging—possibly on his own jealousy—Olly changed the subject. “This Madame Layla, tell me about her again.”
“She’s the bomb,” Jem replied with great enthusiasm. “She’ll know things just by looking at you. Like when I was cursed—she knew it before I said anything. None of that fishing-around-for-information crap you get from fortune-tellers. Mme. Layla is a real witch.”
“If you say so.” Olly had serious doubts, but this trip was a belated birthday gift from Jem, and he knew his manners. “So what does your hunky man candy think of you consorting with witches? He doesn’t strike me as the superstitious type.”
Jem grimaced. “Nick makes fun of me, of course, but you know, when you love somebody, you take their faults with the good bits.”
Olly ignored the heavy-handed message. “Isn’t Nick missing you while you’re driving me around? I heard you old people like to go to bed early.”
“Ha-ha, very funny. He’s on a case. No knowing when I’ll see him next.” Jem sighed. Detective Nick Davies worked in homicide.
Mme. Layla’s abode sat half-hidden among old trees in Pasadena’s bungalow district. Multiple shades of green paint helped it to meld into its surroundings. As Jem and Olly strolled up to the door, a gust of wind swept by, and Olly heard faint jingling mix with the squawking of birds. He looked up but couldn’t make out the birds in the dense foliage. However, the wind chimes and strings of bronze bells dangling from the branches were easy to see.
“They keep the evil spirits away,” said a woman appearing in the open door. Mme. Layla wore a gauzy green shirt over blue jeans, and silver jewelry around her neck and wrists. A few strands of different kinds of silver shimmered in her otherwise dark hair. Olly put her age at forty-plus.
“They don’t do a good job scaring the birds away, though,” he said.
She shook her head, and her earrings made their own jingle. “The parrots are friends—runaways like me. Noisy ones, I admit, but they go to bed early, like old people.” She winked at him. “You must be Olly. Come on inside.”