Bookish and the Beast (Once Upon a Con #3)(34)

No, it can’t be.

But who else would have—

“What are you doing in here?”

A knot forms in my throat.

Slowly, I glance over my shoulder, his mask in my hands.

Vance stands in the doorway in dark gray sweatpants and a cotton T-shirt spread tight over his shoulders. There are spots of sweat on his chest and under his arms, and his platinum hair is pulled up into a bun, stray hairs plastered to his neck. At his heels is Sansa, sitting with her pink tongue lolling out of her mouth, fresh from a run.

He looks like I feel—surprised and betrayed and…

It can’t be him.

It can’t be.

As my mind denies, denies, and denies again, his eyes sharpen until they could cut through the space-time continuum and blast me into the netherverse. “What are you doing in my room?”

“I—I came to look for—for…”

For a book.

Not you.

And at the same time I think, I found you.

I wasn’t looking.

But I found you.

“Please leave,” he says, stepping out of the doorway. His voice is surprisingly soft, and the edges are shaking. As if I’d stumbled upon a secret he never wanted me to know.

But why?

My mind is reeling as I make my way out of his room.

He clears his throat, and I glance back. “The mask,” he says, outstretching his hand.

Oh—I’m still holding it?

I quickly give it back to him. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

He holds it tight to his chest. “Because I’m not who you pictured, am I?”

No, definitely not. Not at all. But the guy I did picture—lovely and patient and kind—has evaporated from my imagination, leaving nothing but the raw look of an unwashed Vance Reigns in his wake. “I—I don’t know what I pictured,” I manage to say.

Which is a lie.

And he knows it. He reads me like an open book.

He scoffs. “Oh, I’m sure I’m exactly who you pictured then, aren’t I? Vance Reigns, the guy who can’t get one thing right, who ruins everything, who screws up every good thing he gets.”

Oh.

“You aren’t denying it,” he adds to my silence.

I bite the inside of my cheek again and whirl back around on my heel to leave. If I say anything else, I know I’ll regret it. I’m angry and confused and wishing I hadn’t come up here at all. If I hadn’t, then I would’ve never found out the truth. The spell wouldn’t be broken.

And it occurs to me—

He probably thinks the same.

He realized it was me, and wished he hadn’t.

I hurry down the stairs. I’ll tell Mr. Rodriguez I had to leave early today. I don’t want to stay anymore. My eyes are burning and I refuse—refuse—to cry in front of this jackass. But I can’t seem to shake him, either, because he follows quick on my heels.

“Wait a moment,” he says as I leave.

“Fine! You’re right! You aren’t what I pictured—” As I whirl back to him, I don’t realize how close my heel is to the edge of the step until I no longer feel the ground, and by then it’s far too late. Try as I might, pinwheeling my arms, I can’t keep myself from falling backward—so I grab onto the only thing I can: Vance Reigns.

And I pull him down with me.





WITH A PAINFUL GROAN, I roll off my side and onto my back. I had to twist myself to the side so I wouldn’t land on top of her, and my shoulder stings from the impact. I suck in a painful breath and push myself to sit up, and once I figure that I’m not broken anywhere, I turn around and snap at her, “Can’t you stop falling off things for two seconds!”

But she’s already trying to get to her feet—and something’s wrong. She’s leaning too heavily against the wall, favoring her right foot, but she’s still trying to walk. Her back is turned to me so I can’t see her face. Before I realize what I’m doing, I’m rushing to my feet.

“Oi, you’re hurt,” I say, reaching for her elbow to steady her.

She wrenches away from my touch, her eyes wide. Tears fleck her long brown eyelashes, and they make me pause. She’s crying. I’ve never been very good with people crying. She quickly rakes her hands over her eyes, smudging her liner.

“I’m leaving, d-don’t worry—” She tries to take another step, but her ankle gives.

I catch her, and bend down, pulling my other arm underneath her legs, and swoop her up into my arms. She yelps and wraps her arms tightly around my neck. If she tells me to put her down, I will, but she doesn’t, so I carry her over to the couch and set her down on the cushions, before I go find an ice pack. Elias put one in the refrigerator a while ago when he burned his hand in the oven. I hope it’s still—ah, there it is, right on top of the peas, where he left it. I grab it, and the first-aid kit underneath the sink, and quickly return to the living room, where she’s trying to get up off the couch.

“Sit,” I command.

“I’m not a dog,” she snaps in reply, to which Sansa—being a good girl on her dog bed in the corner of the living room—gives a haroomp and flops over.

I try again: “Please sit down.”

She hesitates, halfway between standing and leaning on the couch for support, but she must weigh her options in favor of sitting, because she slowly sinks back down onto the cushions. I go around the couch and sit opposite her, reaching for her foot, when she knocks my hand away.