Back in a Spell (The Witches of Thistle Grove, #3)(6)
“Oh, just try it once, Neenie,” Jessa wheedled. “One little date. Think of it as a change of scenery!”
I tilted my head against the booth’s slick back, mulling it over. I knew that I was stagnating; one way or another, it was past time to implement a different strategy. And once upon a time, I used to be a very proficient dater, if I did say so myself. If I was being honest, the idea of a no-pressure date with some hot yet ludicrously unsuitable individual sounded about a million times less excruciating than the glow-paint-and-goats yoga Jessa was probably planning to foist on me next.
Sensing my softening, Jessa doubled down, a cunning gleam kindling in her eye. “Aaaand if it’s a total catastrophe, I’ll owe you a batch of my gourmet pigs in blankets—and I’ll even throw in a Lost Girl marathon.”
“Ugh, you know me far too well, friend,” I groaned, dropping my face into my hands. Puff pastries of any kind were my bizarre mortal weakness, the savory version of my kryptonite. I probably had my parents’ epic dinner parties to thank for that, and all the stealth scavenging my brothers and I had done at them before we’d been allowed to formally attend. For the right kind of flaky hors d’oeuvre—especially one of Jessa’s rare homemade treats, and in conjunction with my favorite TV—there was troublingly little I wouldn’t do.
Lifting my head, I unlocked the phone and plopped it into her palm with a grimace. “Deal, I suppose. But to be clear, the terms of our agreement do not extend beyond the one date.”
With a gleeful crow, Jessa swiped over to the third screen and pulled up my dating apps. Seeing as she’d created the folder and downloaded them for me in the first place, even wordsmithed my profiles so I couldn’t hide behind the excuse of not having the energy to write about myself, she knew exactly where to find them all.
Rolling my empty mug between my palms, I watched her with a mixture of trepidation and the slightest brush of intrigue. It did feel just a little refreshing to cede control over this, instead of swiping through prospective partners in the late nights after work, with an eagle eye toward how many of my boxes they checked. Sitting alone in the dark bedroom that sometimes still smelled faintly of Sydney’s dainty Jardin sur le Toit—for no good reason, given how many thorough scrubbings my loft had gotten since she left—peering into that rectangle of sallow light like it was an exam I badly needed to pass, had felt depressing and lonely and borderline desperate.
This, astonishingly, felt like it might even be fun.
“Too perky . . . too basic . . . oof, way too messy,” Jessa was muttering under her breath as she swiped through possible candidates with decisive little flicks, nose wrinkled in thought. “Too Aritzia-catalog-model—”
“Excuse me, what? Let me see!” I snatched at the phone, but she batted me away.
“Hands to yourself, missy,” she ordered, cradling my phone to her chest. “This chick is not the one we’re looking for, trust me on this. She’s basically brunette you, which means instant disqualification. And might I remind you, I’m in charge of Operation Doggy Paddle? You just sit back, relax, and let me do this good work.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“That’s what he said.”
Snorting, I flagged down the server for another mug of mulled wine, while Jessa speed-swiped through so many profiles it was like watching a live-action carpal tunnel PSA. Then she paused, lips parted, fingertip hovering over the screen. “Well, hello there, sir. Finally, someone with actual promise.”
“Sir?” I echoed, my heart sinking a little. “It’s a dude?”
I’d been trying to keep my options open in the apps, seeing no reason to throw up any additional obstacles for myself. But while I’d slept with a handful of guys, and briefly dated a trans man back in college, my serious relationships had all been with women. When I could bring myself to imagine the hazy outline of a future partner, my mind always conjured up a woman of its own accord.
Which, possibly, meant that not a woman might be perfect for this absurd experiment.
“Well, maybe not entirely,” she corrected, still engrossed in the profile, a tiny reflection of the phone screen glowing blue in her pupils as she flicked through the photos. “Nonbinary, pronouns are ‘he/they,’ and pan orientation, just like you. TBH, I’m more concerned with this face. Here, take a look.”
She passed me the phone, still warm from her grip. I reared back a little at the profile picture, my eyebrows rising as I saw what she meant. Bright blue eyes glittering like gems against the shadows of black liner, a tousled shock of dark brown hair falling into them. Stubble roughening what was otherwise a clean-cut face, with features so fine they were nearly feminine, closer to pretty than handsome. A lazy, crooked half smile, the “stick with me, I’ll show you some things” kind that looked like a gauntlet thrown.
Okay, well. Maybe.
Intrigued despite myself, I swiped through more of his photos, defaulting in my mind to the masculine pronoun since he’d listed it first. In one of the pictures, he wore a dramatic corset and midnight-blue lipstick, galactic flares of silver paint and glitter swooping over his cheekbones. A fuchsia feather boa wrapped around his neck and strung across the shoulders of the two grinning, similarly festooned people crowding in on either side to press their cheeks against his. In another, he was shirtless and upside down, suspended in aerial silks; caught in a pose that highlighted the striking definition of his abs and obliques, bright stage lights illuminating waterfalls of Technicolor tattoos coursing down his arms. He had the kind of muscle so sleek it looked carven, somehow feline.