The Player and the Pixie(18)

“What’s your name?” I demanded, unaccountably irritated by her nerves. I was used to people being intimidated by my presence, yet I rarely enjoyed their discomfort. Just another reminder of how terribly inconvenient I was.

“Marta.” She tilted her chin up, looking like a brave little girl.

“Marta.” I let her name roll off my tongue, softening my tone, and giving her a smile meant to ease her nerves—a skill I’d perfected over the years out of necessity. “Such a beautiful name.”

Her lashes fluttered and pink stained her olive skin. “Th-thank you, Mr. Cassidy.” Marta’s response was a breathy whisper.

“Now, I need a flight to the United States. Specifically, to someplace called Squam Lake in New Hampshire.” I licked my lips and inclined my head toward her, lowering my voice as though I were asking for her secrets. “Can you help me, Marta?”





Chapter Five


@LucyFitz Sometimes I open chocolate bars real slow and imagine what I’d do if there was a golden ticket inside.

@BroderickAdams to @LucyFitz Okay, first answer that pops into your head. Depp-Wonka or Wilder-Wonka?

@LucyFitz to @BroderickAdams This is gonna cause controversy but…Depp-Wonka.

@BroderickAdams to @LucyFitz WHAT!?!



*Lucy*

I felt like I’d died and gone to heaven. Here I was, in a place far removed from modern stresses and strains, no Internet, no mobile phone, but most importantly, no Jackie Fitzpatrick. Yes, I was thousands of miles away from my mother and the urge to steal was a long-forgotten, distant memory.

“You look happy,” said Broderick as we sat on a patio that faced the lake, drinking our kale smoothies.

“Of course I’m happy, Rick. Look where we are. The people who live here must wake up every morning and feel elated just to be alive.”

My friend chuckled. “It’s certainly a lot more relaxing than Manhattan.”

I nodded. “I mean, don’t me wrong, I love New York, but I couldn’t spend the rest of my life there. If I ever made enough money I’d build myself a nice little two-bedroom cottage in a place like this, adopt a bunch of dogs, and just forget about the rest of the world.”

“But then you wouldn’t get to see my handsome face every day,” he teased and I grinned at him. I’d had my fair share of platonic male friends in my time, but Rick was by far the prettiest. And don’t even get me started on his accent. Gah, I could listen to him speak for hours. I’d quickly come to realize we didn’t have chemistry of the romantic variety. In truth, I thought he might be harboring feelings for an ex or hung up on some other girl, and wasn’t getting involved in that.

So, we’d become best buds instead and I thoroughly enjoyed his company.

Speaking of harbored feelings, my mind had been a little preoccupied of late, continually wandering to a certain blond-haired rugby player with a bad attitude. Even though our dinner had ended on unfriendly terms, I couldn’t help replaying his hands on my wrist, or how naturally his arm had wrapped around my waist, the heat of his body warming me.

But enough about “He Who Must Not Be Named.” I needed to start treating him like Voldemort. Don’t speak of him, don’t even think of him, and certainly don’t imagine him tearing my knickers off with his teeth . . .

Anyway.

Back to Broderick. Yes, my friend was someone who actually deserved to take up room in my thoughts. He was a small-time music producer who ran his own blog and website. He did album reviews and stuff like that, but really his talent was wasted on writing, because the man had a fantastic set of pipes. Think Al Green meets Nat King Cole.

We finished off our smoothies and headed inside for our mid-morning yoga class. I’d really taken a shine to the instructor. Her name was Maria, an ex-nun from Massachusetts who’d spent a decade of her life volunteering with impoverished communities in Zimbabwe. She was certainly a woman with stories to tell.

The retreat was located in a large wooden house with an interior that consisted almost exclusively of whites and pale blues. There was nothing busy, nothing stressful to the eye, just serene tones and hardwood floors.

Nirvana.

We were a couple minutes early to class, so Rick and I busied ourselves stretching and setting out our mats. We sat close to the front, and it wasn’t long before the room started to fill up.

About ten minutes in, as Maria instructed us to turn our heads slowly to the right, I looked across the room only to meet a startlingly familiar pair of blue eyes.

What the fu—

How the bloody hell had Voldemort gotten into the building?

Sean Cassidy sat serenely on a yoga mat, his legs crossed and his hands braced on the floor, grinning widely like he’d just been told Scarlett Johansson wanted to give him a blowie. No longer was I relaxed. My inner peace fled for the hills as my palms grew sweaty and my heart rate sped up. I blinked—like maybe I’d imagined him—but no, when I looked again he was still there, still wearing that same smug grin.