“Excuse me?” Wolfe frowned slightly. “What’s typical?”
“Hmm?” Jonah gave him an overly innocent look and pretended he couldn’t see Sophie mouthing “Stop” at him.
“Read any good books lately?” Marco asked, glowering at Wolfe. Marco was an inch shorter, but he made up for it with presence. “Because I really enjoyed Dashing through the Snow by Sophia Hart. I gave it five stars. I’d give it six if I could.”
Oh, God. Sophie wanted to melt through the floor as Wolfe turned to look at her, one eyebrow raised like, Really? You’re siccing your friends on me? But in the next moment, she straightened her shoulders and shook out her brown hair. Why should she feel embarrassed? Her friends were supportive. This was her party. Wolfe was on her territory, so if he didn’t like her friends sticking up for her, he could leave anytime.
He studied her changing expressions with a hint of amusement. Looking back at her friends, he said, “So I suppose you all know what I do, then.”
Jonah leaned in toward him. At five foot seven, he was considerably shorter than Wolfe, but that didn’t seem to bother him. “Yeah. You drink tea made of authors’ tears. I hope that makes you feel like a big man.”
Wolfe frowned, looking from Jonah to Sophie, searching her face for something. “I’m honest and I have a little bit of fun with my work, sure. But I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that.”
Sophie laughed mirthlessly, the words she’d stuffed inside for so long shooting out of her. “You don’t think there’s anything wrong with shitting all over someone else’s hard work? With being sarcastic and mean about something they poured their heart and soul into?” Sophie took a breath, on a roll now. “And you know what? Everyone knows at least a half dozen writers they like. Name me one book critic.”
Wolfe rubbed his jaw. “Okay. Maria Bustillos, Daniel Mendelsohn, James Wood—”
Sophie’s cheeks burned. He was probably just making those up. “Stop that.”
He smirked. “Oh, right. I forgot evidence of any kind isn’t really your thing.” Before she could think of a retort, he raised an eyebrow. “Besides, you’re a writer. Isn’t being open to criticism part of the deal?”
Sophie set her sangria down and thrust a hand through her hair. She was ruining her careful hot-iron curls, but in the moment, she didn’t care. “Of course it is! But what you do isn’t thoughtful criticism! It’s spiteful and derogatory just for the sake of getting a readership.”
Wolfe stared at her. “That’s … quite an accusation.”
“Well, she’s right,” Jonah piped up, stepping closer to Sophie. Marco followed suit. “Your column is basically a libelous, awful, soul-sucking vortex of doom.”
Wolfe raised his hands. “Wow. Sorry you feel that way. But I can assure you, a lot of people really enjoy what I write.”
“Same,” Sophie said, narrowing her eyes. “Except I spread happiness with my words.”
“Sophie!” Damien walked up, a big grin on his face. He was closely followed by Peyton, who looked similarly dopey. Completely oblivious to the tense energy of Sophie’s little group, Damien continued, “Peyton’s been telling me about your superior tarot reading skills. Can you do a reading for all of us? Please?”
Peyton pressed her hands together and sort of danced from foot to foot. Sophie muffled a laugh, her irritation at Wolfe melting away at the look on her best friend’s face. Peyton was drunk, and drunk Peyton always seemed to regress age-wise a decade or so.
“Sure. Let me get my deck.” Sophie gave Wolfe the coldest look she could manage. “Excuse me.”
In her small bedroom, Sophie pressed her hands against the top of her dresser and took a deep breath, trying to collect herself. She’d been determined to be a good hostess to Wolfe while he was here, but man, that was getting more and more difficult by the minute. A quick look at the clock told her it had been less than forty-five minutes since he’d walked in the door, and already, they’d butted heads at least twice. Why was he still here? Surely he didn’t want to be near her any more than she did him.
Sophie looked at herself in the mirror. The corners of her eyes were tight with stress, and her jaw was clenched. She took another deep breath, working to unclench her jaw and relax her shoulders. This was her party, dammit. She wasn’t going to let Wolfe ruin it for her. With a determined nod, she reached into the top drawer of her dresser and pulled out her favorite tarot deck, The Artist’s Seer. Then, sliding the drawer shut, she straightened her shoulders and walked back out to join her guests.
4
Peyton had corralled everyone into the tiny living room. They sat huddled together on the couches and armchairs, holding their drinks and little plates of food, talking and laughing amongst themselves. As soon as Sophie walked into the room, though, seven heads turned to look at her, their eyes wide and shiny.
She laughed. “You guys ready for some magic?”
There were cheers all around, though Wolfe—who was sitting in her favorite teal velvet armchair by the brick fireplace, one big hand cupped loosely around his glass of rum—remained stoic. Sophie put her hands on her hips, one closed fist still clutching the tarot deck. “I’m surprised you’re game for this.”
He shrugged one shoulder. “I’m an open-minded guy. Let’s see what you got.”
“Really?” Sophie tilted her head. “It’s not too ‘imaginative’ for you?” Ugh. Too petty. Too Wolfe-ish. Some of the other guests, innocent of the long-standing feud between Sophie and Wolfe, looked quizzical but didn’t say anything.
He grinned as if he enjoyed watching her act childish, but remained quiet.
Shrugging, Sophie walked to the middle of the room to the coffee table and sat cross-legged before it. Taking a deep breath, she placed the tarot deck on the table, and placed a hand over them, her shimmery red manicure catching the light. Looking around at everyone in the
