“Well, for starters we’re both fascinated by the Italian Renaissance—”

I look at her, fighting the urge to roll my eyes. Having never heard her mention that and I’ve lived with her for nearly a year.

“We both love Italian food—”

Oh yeah, definitely soul mates. The only two people who actually like pizza and pasta and stuff drenched with red sauce and cheese...

“And as of Friday, he’ll be spending quite a bit of time in my building!”

I stop. Stop everything. Including breathing and blinking, so I can stand there and gape.

“He’s working as an expert witness on a case that—”

Her lips keep moving, hands gesturing, but I stopped listening a few sentences back. Her words drowned by the sound of my own crashing heart, accompanied by the silent scream that crowds everything out.

No!

It can’t be.

Can’t. Be.

Can it?

Remembering the vision that night in the restaurant—Sabine getting together with a cute guy who works in her building—a guy, who, without the glasses I didn’t even recognize as Munoz! Knowing immediately what this really means—this is it—her destiny—Munoz is The One!

“You okay?” Her hand reaches for mine as concern clouds her face.

But I pull away quickly, avoiding her touch. Swallowing hard as I paste a smile onto my face, knowing she deserves to be happy—heck, even he deserves to be happy. But still—why do they have to be happy together? Seriously, out of all the men she could date, why does it have to be my teacher, the one who knows my secret?

I look at her, forcing a nod as I drop my bowl in the sink, fleeing for the door as I say, “Yeah—it’s all good, seriously. I just—I don’t want to be late.”

Chapter Thirty-Four

“Hey, it’s Sunday we don’t even open ’til eleven.” Jude props his surfboard against the wall and squints.

I nod, barely glancing away from the book, determined for it to make sense.

“Need help?” He tosses his towel on a chair and moves around the desk until he’s standing behind me.

“If it involves more of this handy dandy code translator you made,” I tap the sheet of paper beside me, “or anything even resembling your long list of meditations, then no thanks, I’ve had all I can take. But if you’re finally going to tell me how to read this thing, without assuming the lotus position, picturing beams of white light, and/or making me imagine long, spindly roots growing from the soles of my feet and extending deep into the earth, then yes, by all means, go ahead and try.” I slide the book toward him, careful to touch only its edge, catching a quick glimpse of his amused face, that tropical gaze, the spliced brow, before looking away.

He places his hand on the desk and leans toward the book, fingers splayed against the old, pockmarked wood, body so close I can feel the push of his energy merge into my space. “There’s another way that might work. Well, for someone with your gifts anyway. But the way you handle that thing, only touching the edges, keeping your distance, it’s pretty clear you’re afraid.”

His voice drifts over me, soothing and calm. Prompting me to close my eyes for a moment and allow myself to feel it, really feel it, without trying to stop it or push it away. Eager to prove Damen wrong, report back that I gave it a fair shot and there’s not a single trace of tingle or heat to be found. Even though Jude likes me—likes me in the same way I like Damen and Damen likes me—even though I saw it in the vision he unwittingly showed me that day—it’s one-sided. All about him, not the slightest bit reciprocated by me. The only thing I’m getting is a decrease in stress and anxiety, a serenity so languid, so relaxed, it soothes my jangled nerves, and—

He taps me on the shoulder, yanking me out of my reverie and motioning for me to join him on the small couch in the corner where he balances the book on his knees. Urging me to place my hand on the page, shut my eyes, clear my head, and intuit the message inside.

At first nothing happens, but that’s because I’m filled with resistance. Still smarting from the last energy slam that practically fried my insides and left me tired and fragmented for the rest of the evening. But the second I decide to let go and give in, to just trust in the process and allow the buzz to flow through me, I’m overcome with a barrage of energy that’s surprisingly, almost embarrassingly personal.

“Getting anything?” he asks, voice low, gaze fixed on me.

I shrug, turning to him when I say, “It’s like—it’s like reading someone’s diary. Or at least that’s what I’m getting—you?”

He nods. “Same.”

“But I thought it would be more like—I don’t know, like a book of spells. You know, a different one on each page.”

“You mean a grimoire.” He smiles, displaying two amazing dimples and charmingly crooked front teeth.

I frown, unfamiliar with the word.

“It’s like a recipe book for spells, containing very specific data—dates, times, ritual performed, results of the ritual, that sort of thing. Strictly business, nothing but the facts.”

“And this?” I tap my nail against the page.

“More like a journal, as you said. A highly personal account of a witch’s progress—what she did, why she did it, how she felt, the results, et cetera. Which is why they’re often written in code, or Theban like this.”

My shoulders droop as I screw my lips to the side, wondering why every bit of progress I’m about to make actually results in two giant steps back.