“And why is that?” I turn, gaze meeting his. Having no real reason not to believe, but needing to be as sure as I can.

“I guess she wanted to build a little trust.” He shrugs. “Not unlike you.”

I look at him, gaze into those sea green eyes, the truth laid open, bared for me to see. He’s not lying, not at all playing, certainly not making it up. He really does see Riley, and his only agenda is to help.

“I think this is why we found each other.” He nods, voice lowered to almost a whisper. “I wonder if Riley arranged this?”

Riley or—something else—something greater than us? I stare at the ocean, wondering if he recognizes me like I recognize him. If he feels the ping in the gut, the prickle of skin, the strange yet familiar pull—the same things I feel? And if so, what does it mean? Do we really have unfinished business—karma that must be addressed?

Is there really no such thing as coincidence?

“I can teach you,” he says, gaze like a promise he wants to fulfill. “There’s no guarantee—but I can try.”

I remove myself from his grip and wade farther in, not caring that my bottom half’s soaking while the rest of me’s dry.

“Everyone has the ability. Just like everyone’s psychic—or at the very least intuitive. It’s just a matter of how open one is, how willing to let go and learn. But with your gifts—there’s no reason why you can’t learn to see her too.”

I glance at him, but only briefly, something’s caught my attention—something that—

“The trick is to raise your vibration—getting it to a level where—”

We don’t see the wave until it’s already cresting, leaving us no time to duck dive or at the very least run. The only thing keeping me from a complete and total wipeout are Jude’s incredibly fast reflexes and the strength of his arms.

“You okay?” he asks, gaze boring into mine.

But my attention’s elsewhere, drawn to that warm wonderful pull, the familiar loving essence that only belongs to one person—only belongs to him—

Watching as Damen cuts through the water, board tucked under his arm, body so sculpted, so bronzed, Rembrandt would weep. Water sluicing behind him like a hot knife through butter, cleanly, fluidly, as though parting the sea.

My lips part, desperate to speak, to call out his name and bring him back to me. But just as I’m about to, my eyes meet his and I see what he sees: me—hair tangled and wet—clothes twisted and clinging—frolicking in the ocean on a hot sunny day with Jude’s tanned strong arms still wrapped around me.

I release myself from Jude’s grip, but it’s too late. Damen’s already seen me.

Already moved on.

Leaving me hollow, breathless, as I watch him retreat.

No tulips, no telepathic message, just a sad, empty void left behind in his place.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Jude follows me out of the water and halfway down the beach, calling after me, trying to keep up, finally surrendering when I cross the street and head toward the store where Haven works.

I need to talk to someone, confide in a friend. Put it all out there and unburden myself, no matter the cost.

Immune to the weight of my soaking wet jeans, the slap of fabric, my clinging, damp tee—not even thinking about manifesting something dry to wear until I get to the door and find Roman there.

“Sorry, no shoes, no shirt, no service.” He smiles. “Though I must say, I am enjoying the view.”

I follow his gaze all the way down to my chest, covering it with my arms when I see how my top has gone pretty much see-thru.

“I need to talk to Haven.” I start to push past him only to be blocked once again.

“Ever, please. This is a classy establishment. Maybe you should come back when you’re a little more—pulled together.”

I peer over his shoulder, catching a glimpse of a fairly large space so opulent, so packed with stuff, it’s like the inside of Genie’s bottle. Crystal chandeliers hanging from the rafters, iron sconces and framed oil paintings marking the walls, while the floors are covered with colorful, woven, overlapping rugs as antique furnishings butt up against rack after rack of vintage clothing and tall glass display cases filled with trinkets and jewelry.

“Just tell me if she’s here.” I glare, patience running thin as he looks me over and smirks. Trying to tune into her energy and assuming he’s blocking me when I don’t get very far.

“Maybe yes—maybe no. Who’s to say?” He reaches into his pocket and retrieves a pack of cigarettes, offering one to me. But I just roll my eyes and make a face, seeing him squint as he brings his lighter to the tip, inhaling deeply then exhaling as he says, “Fer chrissakes, Ever, live a little! Immortality is wasted on you!”

I frown, making a show of waving the smoke out of my face when I say, “Who owns this place?” Realizing I’ve never noticed it before and wondering what his connection could be.

He takes a long drag, eyes narrowed, catlike, as he looks me over from my head to my feet. “You think I’m joking but I’m not. No self-respecting immortal would ever be seen looking like that.” He wags a finger at me. “And yet—and yet—feel free to keep the top—just be sure to change all the rest.” He leers, grinning at me in the most predatory way.

“Who owns this place?” I repeat, peering inside again, an idea beginning to form. This isn’t just any old vintage store. These are Roman’s own personal goods. The stuff he’s hoarded through the last six hundred years, doling them out diligently, selling at just the right time—a dealer of antiquities.