Back in a Spell (The Witches of Thistle Grove, #3)(7)
Something that I tended to like a whole lot, in women and men and everyone in between.
Not all the pictures were quite as flattering. In one, he wore a plaid shirt under suspenders—which, what—and had his mouth massively open as he prepared to chow down on a monstrous-looking burger that appeared to include both chili and a smooshed doughnut. In another selfie, he was giving duckface and flashing the shaka hand sign, while having clearly gotten a makeover from a little kid. His lips a mess of bubblegum pink, yellow eyeshadow indiscriminately smeared all over his upper face.
But in the final photo, he was swimming; submerged up to the bridge of his nose, dark hair bristling in waterlogged spikes. Only those mischievous blue eyes were visible, narrowed against sunshine and reflecting the sequined shimmer of the waterline just below them, beads glistening on his forehead and clinging to the defined arches of his eyebrows. I could see the distinctive ring of evergreens and the bright purple splash of thistles on the distant shoreline behind him; so he was bold enough to swim in Lady’s Lake, something very few Thistle Grove normies seemed to do, as though the lake beckoned specifically and almost exclusively to witches.
I felt an unexpected little flutter in the depths of my belly, even as I acknowledged that he looked . . . risky. Impulsive, unpredictable. Sydney had been quirky and flighty, yes, but in the most polished, socially acceptable, Zooey Deschanel of ways. More Anthropologie, a lot less Burning Man. Before we fell apart, she and I had held similar values, the same ultimate goals for what we wanted our lives to look like.
This person looked like the embodiment of a dare, someone I’d never in a million years have picked for myself.
“So you want me to go out with the trickster god of circus and burlesque,” I said to Jessa, looking up to fix her with a flat stare, “is what you’re telling me.”
“Is that the vibe you’re getting here?” She canted her head, considering. “I’m thinking more like Lord of the Rings elven, but with just the right dash of black sheep.”
“Dash?” I demanded, brandishing the phone at her. “His username is literally ‘lowkeyloki,’ which, okay, possibly I’m a tiny bit here for that. But look at him. He looks like someone who’d get cast to play a sexy chaos demon on Supernatural.”
She shrugged, like, And this is a problem, how? “A little CW bone structure never hurt nobody.”
“That’s not the point. He likes dangling upside down at a perilously great distance from the ground, on purpose. He eats heart-attack burgers with freaking doughnuts in them, like some kind of carpe diem cliché. He posts terrible pictures of himself of his own free will and not under any obvious duress.” I crossed my arms over my chest, like, Rest my case. “I cannot date this individual.”
“You can, and you will—because I picked him for you, and that was the deal, remember? One date. You’re not going to go back on your word now, are you?”
She grinned hugely, knowing she had me there. No Blackmoore ever reneged on an oath once given. Though she wasn’t privy to the witchy background behind this code of honor, Jessa certainly knew it to be true based on her experience with me. Once I committed to something, I always followed through, no matter the cost to myself.
Which wasn’t to say that being honorable didn’t occasionally suck the big one.
“Fine,” I groused, slumping back against the booth. “Swipe right it is, then. Maybe we won’t even match.”
3
A Winter Spell
We matched.
My phone pinged with the notification before I even got home, soon followed by a message from none other than @lowkeyloki himself. I waited until I’d curled up on my couch with a glass of wine, my heart racing just a little, to even open the app DMs.
“You can do this, Nina. Here’s to . . . whatever,” I muttered to myself, lifting the glass in a wry toast and taking a hearty swig as I swiped the message open, grimacing preemptively.
@lowkeyloki: heya this is morty! thanks for the like
I wrinkled my nose, swishing the Bordeaux around my mouth, tannins seeping into my tongue. Not a tremendous fan of “heya” as an opener, but okay, it took all kinds. And “Morty,” really? Even his name was somehow uncouth, at such stodgy odds with his whole alternative vibe. I also wasn’t especially partial to people who eschewed capitals and proper punctuation in their messages—but then again, was its irregular nature not the point of this entire escapade?
Chewing on my lower lip, I carefully composed a message back, trying to strike a sincere balance between something I’d authentically say of my own accord and the online persona Jessa had painstakingly constructed for me: a bubblier, glossier, more emotionally available, and definitively less neurotic version of myself.
Certainly less arid, at any rate.
I typed back, cringing at the fact that I’d completely forgotten having allowed Jessa to saddle me with such a ridiculous handle of my own.
@AttyQueenNeens: Hi! I’m Nina. Fantastic pictures . . . love the silks!
Leading with a flat-out lie was probably not the greatest, but to be fair, I did like the way he looked in them. Just not the potential lethality of the endeavor.
@lowkeyloki: thnx, nina, right back atcha. love the halloween costume, wicked cute