Rules Of Engagement

16

Holding his gaze, I say with heat, “And if you want total honesty, I do think you’re angry. I won’t pretend to know why, and I won’t ask either, because that’s none of my business. As for your being self-centered, I can’t really speak to that, but since we’re not holding back here, I will admit I think that any man who has s*x on every date he goes on and only wants a wife to help save his career and doesn’t believe in love is either extremely superficial or extremely—”

When I stop abruptly, Mason steps closer. “What?” he prompts, his voice hard and his eyes flashing.

But I’m too busy having an epiphany to answer.

“What, Maddie?” says Mason angrily. “What’s the word you were gonna say?” I whisper, “Hurt.”

Mason’s face drains of blood. As if on cue, the church bells begin to ring.

Through gritted teeth, he says, “It’s a good thing you didn’t become a therapist. You would’ve sucked at it.”

I swallow, because that stung. But I won’t snap back at him just because he dented my pride.

“If you were trying to make me feel bad by saying that, it worked. I’m sorry that I offended you. Also, just for the record, I don’t think you have more d**k than brains. You actually seem to me like the type of person who’s a lot smarter than he likes to let on because it doesn’t fit with his image. I do think you’re a little F-worded up, but so is everyone else. We’re all just doing the best we can.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to walk away again because I’m feeling a little emotional and I don’t want to make a fool of myself by bursting into tears in front of you. My client. If you still are my client after today, that is.”

I turn and walk a few feet away, but stop and turn back.

Mason stands stock still where I left him, staring at me as if he’s been electrocuted.

I say, “Also for the record, I hope you will still be my client. And if you are, I promise not to make any more comments about your personality. I don’t want you to feel like I’m judging you. I know I seem… stuffy—prim was your word—but I’m not heartless. I would never want you to feel like I think I’m better than you, because I don’t.”

I hate myself that my voice cracked on that last word.

I whirl around and walk away from him, quickly making my way toward the side door of the church to avoid the crowd at the main steps and Auntie Waldine, who’d make a scene if she knew I was upset.

And she would know, even if my eyes weren’t watering. The woman’s powers of observation are supernatural.

Literally. She sees auras.

She claims it runs in the family—the female side of the family, anyway—and that my mother, her baby sister, had the power, too. But she also claims I have the ability, only I’m too “repressed” for it to present, so her whole argument is moot.

The only energy field I’ve ever seen was around Tom Brady when I watched him win the Super Bowl the sixth time, and I’m pretty sure what I was seeing was just my own haze of lust.

I slip inside the sanctuary and take a seat near the end of the pew in the last row, then slouch down and dig a tissue from my handbag.

I don’t know why I’m so upset about our conversation, but Mason Spark has a way of getting under my skin.

It’s several minutes later, when I’m dabbing at my eyes, that a large, masculine form appears beside me.

I don’t have to look up to know who it is. The man has the presence of an erupting volcano.

Without a word, he slides into the pew next to me, stretching one long leg out into the aisle. Staring straight ahead, he folds his arms over his chest.

Just when I think my breathing has gone back to normal, Mason nudges me with his elbow. When I ignore him, he leans over and whispers, “You said ‘dick.’”

His voice is teasing. When I glance at him, his eyes are warm. Biggest shock of all: he’s smiling.

That smile transforms his face. For one heart-stopping moment, he’s the most handsome man I’ve ever seen.

But then he ruins it by going stiff and thundering, “Are you crying?”

“I have allergies,” I hiss, looking around in horror. I notice several people looking in our direction and slide lower in the pew. “And please keep your voice down!”

“You are crying,” he accuses, his voice not a single decibel lower. It echoes off the rafters. “I thought you were joking when you said that thing about bursting into tears!”

I drop my face into my palms and beg God to send a heavenly thunderbolt to kill me.

Instead, He demonstrates his black sense of humor and sends Auntie Waldine.

9

WALDINE

I

took one look at my niece walkin’ across the parking lot and I knew somethin’ was wrong.

It wasn’t the stiff set of her shoulders or the way she was hurryin’ toward church like she was bein’ chased by a horde of demons sent by Lucifer himself. No, it’s not unusual

for Maddie to look like there’s a stick wedged up her patootie. I swear, that child is her father’s daughter through and through: Up. Tight.

How I knew something was wrong was that her aura was all off.

Now, normally her psychic energy field is a clear sunny yellow, which matches her personality. Yellow auras reflect confidence, a strong sense of self, and perfectionism, and people who emit an aura in that color are natural born leaders.