Tempt the Stars

see anything in the wash of sunshine pouring in through the curtains.
    I stopped and blinked at them.
    The suddenly wide-open curtains.
    The suddenly wide-open curtains that were being reflected in the mirror over the dresser.
    And okay, no. That mirror had been in about a thousand pieces all over the floor last night. I mean, I couldn’t be wrong about that, right? I’d stepped in the remains, and even kicked some when—
    My brain came to a screeching halt as three things happened simultaneously. My eyes wandered over the view beyond the bed, which was noticeably lacking in broken glass, destroyed furniture, or ominous stains. My nose registered a complete dearth of potion residue. And my ears pricked up at a small, new sound.
    A sound like the beep of a key card tripping an automatic lock.
    My head jerked around to see the doorknob start to turn, and I tried to shift. But my fuzzy brain wasn’t having it. Instead, it had gone into flight mode all right, but for some reason it had decided that the path to safety involved me trying to squash myself into the few inches of space under the bed. Only I couldn’t because the damned boots were in the way. And by the time I shoved them aside, thrust the still-talking tarot card down my shirt, realized there was already something wedged in between my breasts, crammed the card into the top of a small, greasy package I found there, and started stuffing myself past the dust ruffle . . 
    It was too late.
    The door opened and someone came in, sneaker-clad feet quiet on the tiled floor of the entryway. They stopped abruptly, and there was no sound for a beat, then two. And then they crossed silently onto the carpet before pausing again, beside the bed.
    Where they were currently being treated to the sight of my ass wriggling around in the air like Pooh Bear sticking out of Rabbit’s house, because it hadn’t made it under here with the rest of me.
    For a moment, nothing was said.
    Then a single finger pushed up the dust ruffle. And a clear green eye peered underneath at me. I stared back at it, and what little coherent thought I’d managed to form went out the window.
    “Is there . . . a problem?” a mild voice asked me.
    I licked my lips, because, as usual for me, “problem” didn’t cover it. I opened my mouth to reply, and God knows what I’d have said. Only, luckily, speech was one of many things that didn’t seem to be working right now.
    Like motor control. Because the next moment, when I was hauled out from under the bed and up to a pair of so-familiar green eyes, I just hung there limply. And stared.
    At a face that was hard to look at.
    Not that it was unattractive. There had been a time when I’d thought so—the overlarge nose, the hard-as-glass eyes, the I-couldn’t-be-bothered-to-shave-todayand-possibly-not-yesterday-either stubble didn’t exactly spell out movie-star good looks. But there was a lot more to John Pritkin than looks, although even there I’d started to come around recently. The strong, stubborn jawline, the rock-hard body, and the flashes of humor behind the taciturn expression—hell, even the rigid blond spikes he called hair might not add up to handsome, but they added up to something.
    Something that might have been disturbing if I hadn’t had plenty of other things to disturb me right now.
    “What is it?” Pritkin demanded, fingers tightening on my arms as his face suddenly swam in front of me.
    I told myself to get a grip, but it wasn’t working. To suddenly have him just show up like that was . . . well, it was what I guess most people felt when they saw a ghost. It was startling and exhilarating and strangely terrifying . . 
    And impossible, I realized, as the explanation slammed into me.
    This wasn’t about Rosier growing a heart and sending his son back where he belonged. Pritkin’s expression told me that much. I didn’t know what look I might find on his face if I ever caught up with him again, but I didn’t think it would be mild concern mixed with a healthy dose of exasperation.
    No. This was me, thinking, longing, dreaming . . . and shifting, while either asleep or as good as, back to a time where I knew I’d find him. Back to a time I was about to royally screw up if I didn’t
get it together
.
    “Cassie—” Pritkin was starting to look seriously worried, maybe because I was still hanging there lifelessly, staring at him like an idiot. Except for one hand, which had come up to gently