he was suffering the first inkling of doubt as to her sanity would be putting it mildly. He was a logical man. Angels did not wear cupcake headbands and drive stick shifts. Therefore, his dream girl was either a total schizo, or. . . okay, yeah. She was schizo.
Of course, she was still hot and still otherwise awesome, so perhaps he shouldn’t be too hasty. F. Scott Fitzgerald’s girlfriend Zelda had been a card-carrying nutcase, and he’d married her. A few delusions weren’t the end of the world.
Er, as long as she took her meds. Which maybe she wasn’t on. How far did this fantasy go?
“You’re an angel,” he repeated slowly. Questioningly.
She nodded. “A guardian angel. Your guardian angel.”
“So. . . you do miracles?”
Her eyes narrowed as if she suspected a trap. “When necessary.”
“Well, do one now.”
“Do one what?”
“A miracle. Prove you have the power.”
“I’m your guardian angel, not your monkey. I don’t have to prove anything. You’re not even supposed to know I exist. I’ll be lucky if I don’t get fired for this. It’s a very exclusive guild.”
“I see.” He tapped his chin. “How exactly does one become part of the angel guild?”
She crossed her arms over her chest and glared at him. Eventually, she muttered, “You’re either born or chosen. Or the third way.”
Huh? Was that supposed to make sense? He waited, but that seemed to be the extent of the explanation. “Well, that was enlightening.”
“I’m not allowed to talk about it.”
“I can see why.”
She rolled her eyes. “Can we move past this?”
“I just want to understand how it works. Are you supposed to save me if I fall out of an airplane or get hit by a bus or something?”
“I can’t undo death.” The bleakness in her tone and the seriousness in her eyes were unnervingly genuine. “I’m an angel, not God.”
“So. . . you guard me from bad things before they happen?”
“I try to keep you out of danger, yes.”
Something in her voice, in her face, had him almost believing her. Did that make him just as crazy as she was? He needed something that would settle the argument one way or the other. Something empirical. Inarguable.
He glanced around the tent, looking for something an alleged guardian angel might be able to protect him from. His gaze landed on a spare tent spike. That should be heavy enough to constitute “danger.” He picked up the spike and held it over his bare foot. He turned it sideways, so as to minimize impact. “So. . . you’ll keep me safe from this?”
He let go of the spike before she answered.
The flat side crashed into the top of his foot, sending a lightning bolt of shooting pain up his leg.
“Ow!” The spike rolled to a stop a few inches away. Sarah hadn’t moved a millimeter. His foot was already starting to bruise. “You didn’t save me from that .”
She lifted a shoulder. “My job is to guard you from death, not from your own stupidity.”
He stared at her for a long moment, his injured foot throbbing. Then he burst out laughing.
She was having him on. Obviously she was having him on. There were no guardian angels, just gullible travelers. She’d even gotten him to drop a metal spike on his own foot to prove her wrong. Next time, he wouldn’t face her in a battle of wits until after he’d had a double shot of caffeine.
Still shaking his head at how easily he’d been had, he pushed to his feet and held out his hand. “Come on, Zelda. Let’s go get some coffee.”
Chapter Seven
T HREE DAYS later, the roofs were fixed and the frame was set for a small community center that could double as a church or school, whatever the locals needed. The problem was, only the frame was set.
No. Jack ran swollen fingers through his hair. That wasn’t the problem.
The problem was the bridge.
Sarah was right about the bridge’s instability and untrustworthiness. When he’d gone back in the daylight to orchestrate the piecemeal
Of course, she was still hot and still otherwise awesome, so perhaps he shouldn’t be too hasty. F. Scott Fitzgerald’s girlfriend Zelda had been a card-carrying nutcase, and he’d married her. A few delusions weren’t the end of the world.
Er, as long as she took her meds. Which maybe she wasn’t on. How far did this fantasy go?
“You’re an angel,” he repeated slowly. Questioningly.
She nodded. “A guardian angel. Your guardian angel.”
“So. . . you do miracles?”
Her eyes narrowed as if she suspected a trap. “When necessary.”
“Well, do one now.”
“Do one what?”
“A miracle. Prove you have the power.”
“I’m your guardian angel, not your monkey. I don’t have to prove anything. You’re not even supposed to know I exist. I’ll be lucky if I don’t get fired for this. It’s a very exclusive guild.”
“I see.” He tapped his chin. “How exactly does one become part of the angel guild?”
She crossed her arms over her chest and glared at him. Eventually, she muttered, “You’re either born or chosen. Or the third way.”
Huh? Was that supposed to make sense? He waited, but that seemed to be the extent of the explanation. “Well, that was enlightening.”
“I’m not allowed to talk about it.”
“I can see why.”
She rolled her eyes. “Can we move past this?”
“I just want to understand how it works. Are you supposed to save me if I fall out of an airplane or get hit by a bus or something?”
“I can’t undo death.” The bleakness in her tone and the seriousness in her eyes were unnervingly genuine. “I’m an angel, not God.”
“So. . . you guard me from bad things before they happen?”
“I try to keep you out of danger, yes.”
Something in her voice, in her face, had him almost believing her. Did that make him just as crazy as she was? He needed something that would settle the argument one way or the other. Something empirical. Inarguable.
He glanced around the tent, looking for something an alleged guardian angel might be able to protect him from. His gaze landed on a spare tent spike. That should be heavy enough to constitute “danger.” He picked up the spike and held it over his bare foot. He turned it sideways, so as to minimize impact. “So. . . you’ll keep me safe from this?”
He let go of the spike before she answered.
The flat side crashed into the top of his foot, sending a lightning bolt of shooting pain up his leg.
“Ow!” The spike rolled to a stop a few inches away. Sarah hadn’t moved a millimeter. His foot was already starting to bruise. “You didn’t save me from that .”
She lifted a shoulder. “My job is to guard you from death, not from your own stupidity.”
He stared at her for a long moment, his injured foot throbbing. Then he burst out laughing.
She was having him on. Obviously she was having him on. There were no guardian angels, just gullible travelers. She’d even gotten him to drop a metal spike on his own foot to prove her wrong. Next time, he wouldn’t face her in a battle of wits until after he’d had a double shot of caffeine.
Still shaking his head at how easily he’d been had, he pushed to his feet and held out his hand. “Come on, Zelda. Let’s go get some coffee.”
Chapter Seven
T HREE DAYS later, the roofs were fixed and the frame was set for a small community center that could double as a church or school, whatever the locals needed. The problem was, only the frame was set.
No. Jack ran swollen fingers through his hair. That wasn’t the problem.
The problem was the bridge.
Sarah was right about the bridge’s instability and untrustworthiness. When he’d gone back in the daylight to orchestrate the piecemeal
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