Under Your Spell
“So, is Chloe rentin’ this place out to you?” Saint asked.
“Chloe?” The sound of my own name startled me so much, I dropped the keys.
Saint bent and picked them up, before handing them to me. I glanced up, meeting those startling, swallow-me-whole blue eyes. Somehow, I couldn’t look away.
Saint cleared his throat. “What was I sayin’? Right. Chloe’s the girl who owns this place. Her grandmother passed a few weeks ago. She must’ve rented it out to you.”
“Oh, uh, um, yes.” The lie clogged my throat, and I had to force the words out.
“What’s wrong?” He studied my face.
“Nothing. I’m fine.”
And then his eyes widened. “Wait a minute. No.”
“Holy shit.” Saint stabbed an accusatory finger at me. “You’re her.”
“Who?” I played dumb, desperately clinging to the plan.
“No fuckin’ way.” He backed off. “You’re Chloe!”
“But you’re…Little Bit.” He trailed off. Saint had given me the nickname when I was a kid because I’d been short. Not to mention, round. “No, I can’t do this. It ain’t right.” Saint shook his head as if trying to clear the cobwebs away. “Sorry. I have to go.”
Saint raced back down the path. He straddled his motorcycle and then took off, leaving a cloud of dirt and smoke in his wake.
And I was left on the front porch, watching him leave.
Well, that didn’t go according to plan.