Chapter 38 Presley

Presley The sun just set, and with it, all the warmth was sucked from the city, it seems. Today was cooler than usual for July, and the evening air is damp.

Tugging my sweater tighter around me, I check the maps app on my phone to make sure I’m walking in the right direction. If the GPS is accurate, then Moon and Stars Lounge and Bar should be right here. I frown, looking at the barbershop where the tarot card parlor should be.

Turning, I finally spot it—an unassuming narrow staircase that leads down toward a dark wooden door with a silver crescent moon nailed to it.

A little chill of excitement runs down my spine. I was surprised when Dominic agreed to meet me here. It was a place neither of us had been, which would ensure it would be neutral ground.

He said that I could name the place, so why not pick a spot I’ve been dreaming of coming to for months?

I walk into the dimly lit lounge and wait for my eyes to adjust to the dark. The door swings closed behind me. The lounge is all velvet and low-hanging lights, with a bar at the far back of the room. Art on the walls depicts the goddesses in all their beauty and ferocious glory. It’s surprisingly fuller than I thought it would be.

When I can make out the shadowy figures, huddled over their tables with glasses of wine, I find the silhouette I’m looking for. As I gaze at the line of his broad shoulders and the curl of hair at the nape of his neck . . . a little pang of worry shivers through me, and I desperately want to turn and run back to Bianca’s apartment and bury myself in her couch cushions.

This is going to be impossible.

“Hey,” I say, keeping my composure.

Dominic turns, his eyes so dark and empty that I almost take a step back in shock.

I take in everything in a matter of seconds.

Thick eyelashes. A strong jaw. Too pretty of a mouth. The notch of an Adam’s apple peeking out above his shirt collar. He’s perfection, but he looks more somber than I’ve ever seen him—even if he’s trying hard to hide it.

“Presley.” Dominic stands from the table and pulls out a chair for me.

I take a seat, acutely aware of how stiff we’re both acting. A glass of water is waiting for me, so I take a greedy gulp.

“This is quite the little spot,” he says, his gaze flitting from table to table. “I ordered a drink, and they asked me what my zodiac sign is.”

“What is your sign?” I ask, intrigued.

“Aquarius,” he says, then gives me a curious look. “What?”

“No, it’s just . . . of course you’re an Aquarius.” I should have known from the beginning. The rebellious nature, the desire for innovation, the need for emotional freedom . . . it all makes sense.

“I’m not a big water person. I don’t love swimming.”

“Aquarius is an air sign,” I say with a smirk into my glass of water.

“Ah, well, you’re the smart one. So, what are you?”

“Hmm?”

“What’s your sign?”

“Scorpio.”

He shudders dramatically. “That sounds intimidating.”

“We’re conniving . . . vindictive.” I smile sweetly. “But also loyal friends and lovers. Ride or die, as they say.”

“Ride or die,” he repeats, as if he’s never heard the phrase before.

He raises his glass of whiskey to my water, and we clink them together amiably. Sitting here, talking like we’re on our first date . .

. it’s definitely weird.

Better to cut to the chase.

“Anyway. There’s something I want—”

“Do you want a real drink? Let me get you a drink.” Suddenly, he’s on his feet and heading toward the bar.

Okay . . .

He has to know why I asked him here. He knows we need to talk. Is he avoiding it?

When he returns with a tall glass of bubbly, I smile. At least he knows my drink.

“Thank you,” I say. I clear my throat, attempting to summon the courage I need in order to have this conversation. I practiced it in the mirror this morning, ran it by Bianca before I left, and even rehearsed it on the walk here.

How hard is it to tell an emotionally unavailable man you’re in love with him?

A woman wearing a long purple gown makes her way to our table. In her hands is a stack of beautifully illustrated tarot cards.

The drawings are intricate, moons and flowers and hands and hearts—all the makings for a beautiful deck. The gilded edges catch in the candlelight like jewelry.

“A reading?” she asks, presenting the cards before us.

“No, thanks,” I say. I need to get these words out before I explode, lady. Can’t you see we’re in the middle of something?

“Can she use your cards?” Dominic asks suddenly. He turns to me, meeting my surprised gaze. “What? You read, don’t you?”

The woman turns to me with an amused tilt of the head.

Oh my God. This is so humiliating.

“I—sometimes. My grandmother taught me,” I stammer, feeling my cheeks growing rosier by the second. Tarot cards have been a very private part of my life, and to suddenly be facing a professional—well, it’s humbling. I really don’t want some stranger listening in.

But without another word, the woman places the stack of cards in the center of our table and gives me a reassuring wink. Then she walks away, her long skirts brushing the floor behind her.

“They’re bigger than I thought they would be,” Dominic says, brushing his fingers against the deck.

It’s so hard to be sitting here with him, with all of his masculine beauty and strength and his quiet confidence, and with the heartbreaking knowledge that he’s not mine. Knowing I can’t touch him. Knowing he left a huge hole in my heart.

I release a short sigh. So far this isn’t going how I planned.

“Do you actually want me to read your cards?” I ask, a little unsure of his intentions.

Do I want to read his cards? I admit I’m fiendishly curious.

“Sure.” His tone is casual, even if he doesn’t appear entirely relaxed.

I contemplate the decision for a moment. Maybe the cards will help me say what I want to say to him. They’ve never failed me before. And maybe it’s crazy, but using the cards helps me feel closer to my grandma, and my mom too. I could use a little motherly wisdom right about now.

“Okay.” I shuffle the deck, piece by piece, the way I was taught. “The way I do tarot is just for beginners. It is only as accurate as you let it be.”

“I have an open mind,” he says.

“All right. Cut the deck into three stacks,” I tell him, and he does. “Now, reveal the leftmost card. This card will give us insight into your past.”

“The Emperor?” he says, scrutinizing the bearded man in the picture. “What does it mean?”

“The Emperor is the father figure, which is very appropriate for you. In your recent past, you became a father to two little girls, and also inherited an enterprise from your own father. You have become a father in both your personal and professional lives, in a sense. But it’s not just the Emperor. It’s the Reversed Emperor. See how it’s facing me instead of you?”

“What does that mean?” His brows push together.

I wonder briefly if showing my new boss / ex-lover his spiritual flaws is really the best way to ensure a happy working relationship.

Fuck it.

“It means you are—or were—exercising too much control on your own life. Your inflexibility was stifling the natural flow of events.”

Dominic furrows his brow, making me wonder if I’ve already lost him. “Continue.”

“Turn over the next card. This will give us insight into your present.”

We both lean in to see what the cards will reveal.

The Hangman. Interesting. I rarely get this card. I have to dig into my banks of knowledge for this one.

“That seems ominous,” he mutters into his whiskey before taking a slow drink.

“Not at all. The Hangman is actually representative of letting go. And since it’s upright, it means that you are excelling in it. You’re moving in the right direction. That’s good!”

Without thinking, I reach out and grasp Dom’s hand in a gesture meant to comfort, but the moment my skin touches his, a shock reverberates through both of us. I can tell by the way his lips part that he feels it too. I pull my hand back, chastising myself for crossing that physical boundary.

Dominic clears his throat. “Let me guess,” he says, pointing at the last unturned card. “The future?”

“Yes,” I say. My stomach churns.

He flips the card just enough for his own eyes to see. Then he lets it slide from his fingers, still facedown.

“What is it?” I ask, curious to see what he’s hiding.

He gazes straight into my eyes. “I can’t be with you, Presley.”