Page 26 of Vengefully Matched

Priscilla frowned. “Well, when you put it that way, it makes me sound bad. But Agatha was the one who came up with this plan. I just went along with it.”

Azrael grinned at her.

“Agatha’s pretty, no?” He smiled wider. “Vickie said she’s pretty and that she’s certain you’ve noticed just exactly how pretty.” He looked up, grinning like a devil. “I heard she’s your type.”

She felt the frown on her face deepen, too hot for comfort.

“No.” It was a lie, sure, but it wasn’t entirely her fault. Being around her brother could sometimes bring out her least mature behavior.

“Then why are you blushing? You never blush. I don’t think I’ve seen you this red since before I left for college.”

“I’m not blushing, I’m glaring.” If only her face would stop feeling so hot, she could sell this.

“Sure.” Her brother smirked.

The sound of the door knocker interrupted them. Azrael cocked his head at her, and she pulled a hand over her face. There was no way to avoid telling him what he was about to know.

“She’s coming over. To get our stories straight.”

“Straight?” He looked like he wanted to laugh again.

“Don’t you dare,” she bit out.

Az held up his hands. “I’m on your side. No matter what.” The corner of his mouth twitched, but he jumped a little when the knocker sounded again, this time groaning miserably. “Are you going to get that? I think it’s your girlfriend.”

There was no sense telling him to fuck off as he followed her to the door; he lived here too. She opened it to find Agatha standing there.

For a moment, her breath caught. Agatha looked so vulnerable. Soft, even.

Her hair was damp and pulled back, as though she’d just showered, and she wasn’t exactly dressed down, but she had on comfortable-looking corduroy pants and a cotton shirt that hugged her curves and tapered to a scoop neck in the front.

She looked casual, and for some reason, Priscilla felt like she could breathe, better than perhaps she had ever breathed before. She inhaled, and her lungs filled with a contentment so complete that she could have forgotten herself entirely, if not for the throat clearing behind her.

“Oh. Come in, Agatha. You know my brother, Az.”

Agatha raised a hand in greeting. “Hi,” she said, smiling and breezing past them both, looking up in awe at the sweeping two-story ceiling. “Gosh, it’s even more beautiful than I imagined,” she murmured, looking around.

Priscilla’s eyes remained glued to Agatha, to the nape of her neck and the blond tendril that had escaped her high bun. “Right,” she said. “You haven’t been here before. Sorry, yeah. It’s lovely,” Prissy said, not looking at the house at all, and not daring to look at Azrael.

“Welcome to Hart Manor,” her brother said, “but actually, I was just leaving.”

His stack of student papers, half-consumed mug of coffee, and favorite grading pens on the table said otherwise. But before Priscilla could argue, he had grabbed his keys off the hook and was halfway out the door, not even stopping to grab a jacket. “Good to see you, Agatha. Sorry to leave—I promised my girlfriend I would help her close up shop.”

It was an unlikely story for a weeknight, but she let it go.

It did, however, present a slight problem.

There was now a beautiful woman standing in her foyer, waiting to hear all the ways they could pretend, casually, to be together. While they were alone in a house with opinions about romance.

And that beautiful woman also happened to be her sworn nemesis.

So maybe more than a slight problem, after all.

The door shut behind Prissy, landing softly on her rear and nudging her into the room. She swore the lights dimmed just a little, just enough that she wasn’t sure if she was imagining it.

The flickering candles that lit themselves on the mantel, however, were obvious, as was the way a breeze blew out of nothing, wafting the scent of Agatha toward her. The woman smelled like peaches and vanilla, and just a trace of something a little spicy—cardamom, maybe?

She smelled like pie, and Priscilla had never been reserved enough to pretend that she wasn’t the sort of bluntly crude person who would think of, well, other sorts of pies when presented with that idea.