Okay, actually, after further research, I realized I can’t be a princess. Since the Bourbon-Parma family is no longer reigning, only the issue of princesses and princes of the line are titled. Unless a prince marries a girl who’s a princess already, she doesn’t carry the title of princess. Still, it’s pretty much the closest to being a princess a girl could imagine.
Needless to say, I’m in raptures. A reality TV show and a prince. My life is perfect. Really perfect. Meeting my Prince Charming is all I’ve dreamed about since I first read Cinderella. Rory knows this, so as soon as I see her, I give her the 411 on the prince and the show.
“So the film crew didn’t show up today,” I tell her. “I think they’ll be there Monday, but I’m getting a little nervous. I mean, Miranda can’t or won’t tell me anything and the translator abbreviates everything the iron designers say into three words or less.”
A roar goes up and Rory and I glance at the big-screen TV on the patio in front of us. Not that I can see the game. There’s a wall of men guarding the television. Rory and I are sitting on the wooden steps, arms drawn around our knees, dressed in shorts and T-shirts. Rory’s drinking a beer, but I’m nursing a gin and tonic. Not my favorite, but the liquor here is crap. I don’t really like gin, so drinking cheap gin can’t ruin it for me.
“But you’re going to be on TV,” Rory says when the noise dies down. “And you might even win a million dollars.” She tucks a strand of her straight light brown hair behind her ear. She cut it a few days ago so that it grazes her chin, and the style really flatters her small face.
“It will be fun to be on TV, but I’m afraid that all my mess-ups are going to be broadcast for the world to see.”
“But you’re not going to mess up,” she says with perfect confidence. I marvel at her complete faith in me. One thing about Rory, she’s loyal. “And you’re going to be an unofficial princess!”
“I hardly know Nicolo. I think it’s a little early to plan the wedding.” I’ve already gotten the whole thing planned anyway.
Rory finishes her beer. How can she drink that stuff?
“I don’t think it’s too early. Every man you meet falls in love with you.”
I roll my eyes. “I don’t know where you get these ideas. Bryce didn’t fall in love with me.”
A groan erupts from the patio, and the mournful sound complements my feelings. Rory puts her arm around my shoulder. “Bryce was a nerf-herder. I thought we established that.”
“You established that.”
“Allison, it’s time you took all thoughts of Bryce and blasted them into the far reaches of an asteroid field to be pulverized with all the other refuse. Then start thinking about how nice Princess Allison sounds.”
“Don’t tell me the rumor’s true,” Hunter says, taking a seat beside Rory. And, as if they’re two parts of a whole, she melts effortlessly into him. “The whole way here, Rory wouldn’t stop talking about the prince that called her at work and wanted to know if he could watch the game with us.”
“Well, it’s not every day that a prince calls me, okay? Like if a princess called you, you wouldn’t be excited.”
“A princess already does call me,” Hunter says and kisses her cheek.
Gag, gag, gag. Hunter is just too good to be true. Don’t get me wrong, I like him and everything. I’ve always liked him, and I’ve known him since elementary school. But when all the cheerleaders were gaga over his blue eyes, his dark hair, and his athlete’s body, I wasn’t interested. Hunter will always do the right thing. The expected thing. There are no surprises with Hunter, and I like surprises.
“So Rory tells me you’re going to be on TV.”
I nod wearily. “The show’s called Kamikaze Makeover! It’s supposed to be like Iron Chef but with decorators. It’s Josh and me against the Japanese. They start preproduction tomorrow.”
“Cool.”
“It looks cool, but there’s something weird going on. You know how these shows are. There’s got to be something we don’t know. And these Japanese guys. I think we need to get a new translator.” I see a tall guy with unmistakable confidence stroll in, and my heart starts beating hard. Oh, my God. It’s Nicolo. I didn’t actually think he’d show. But then the guy turns.
It’s Dave. How could I possibly confuse Dave with Nicolo? Dave’s hair is kind of an ash blond, thick and spiky, sort of like Brad Pitt’s, while Nicolo is all dark and European. I suppose they’re built about the same, but Dave walks around like a Tyrannosaurus rex and Nicolo moves like Fred Astaire.
“Why do you need a new translator?” Hunter asks.
Still watching Dave, praying he doesn’t spot us, even though I know avoiding him all night is impossible, I say, “Because his answers are too short.” I glance at Hunter. “Mr. Kinjo and the director, Watanabe, talk and talk and talk, and then the translator will say, ‘Mr. Kinjo say hello.’ What is that? How long does it take to say hello in Japanese?”
“Not long,” Hunter answers. “Hey, Dave! Over here.” He waves at Dave and I grind my teeth when Dave turns and flashes the three of us a smile. Why does he have to look so good? I really, really hate him.
He lopes over, his legs too long to emulate the refined aristocratic gait Nicolo’s mastered. Where is Nicolo? Am I getting rejected again? If he doesn’t show, prince or not, he’s getting a royal send-off.
“So, what’s the score?” Dave asks, after he and Hunter shake hands, slap shoulders, and make grunting noises.
“Bulls down by three last time I checked,” Hunter answers.
“Yeah? Rory keeping you too busy to watch the game?” Dave jokes, then pulls Rory to her feet and into a bear hug. “Hey, space cadet. You look different.”
Rory fingers her newly shorn locks. “I had my hair cut.”
“Oh, yeah. It looks…shorter.”
“Now that’s a compliment for you, Rory,” I say, rising to stand with everyone else. It would be better if I ignored Dave, but not nearly as satisfying as making snarky comments. “A girl pays two hundred dollars for a cut and highlights and all a guy can say is, ‘It looks shorter.’”
Dave rubs his chin and studies me with those golden eyes. Have I mentioned Dave’s eyes? They’re like something you’d see on a lion—deep, enigmatic, and compelling. It’s so not fair.
“Hey, Red. Good to see you’re glad to see me, as usual.”
Argh! Why can’t I ever be cool and aloof with Dave? Why does he always cut straight through my bullshit?
“Guys.” Hunter’s tone is full of warning. “Don’t start.”
Dave shrugs. “It’s okay. I think I know what the problem is.”
“You were born?” I counter with a smile, but inside my heart stutters. I cannot let him have the chance to tell everyone he rejected me.
“No.” Dave chucks my cheek lightly with his hand. “You’re just jealous because I gave Rory a compliment and not you.”
There’s a shout from the patio, and Rory says, “Hey, let’s go watch the game.”
Dave and I ignore her.
“Me jealous? What reality are you living in?” But it sounds as defensive as I feel.
And Dave just smiles indulgently, then says, “Don’t worry, Red, I’ve got a compliment for you, too.”
I cock my head. “Oh, good. This I have to hear.”
He winks at me, and I want to scratch his eyes out. “You look good in shorts and a T-shirt,” he says, giving me the once-over as if I were a used car he’s thinking of buying. “No blue Gatorade this time and less prissy than usual.”
My jaw drops. “Prissy? Prissy!”
“Allison…” Rory begins, but before I can tell her to stay out of it, before I can smack Dave, before I can do anything, Dave grabs me up and hugs me, pressing my face into his chest so that no one can hear me.
See why I hate him? See? God, but he smells good. Argh! “I hate you,” I mumble, and then I feel his lips brush my ear.
“No, you don’t. You’re just scared.”
I stop struggling. Now how does he know that?
“You must be Rory.” A male voice with a familiar European accent penetrates the cage of Dave’s arms, the sound muted by the rapid beating of his heart. Hmm. Maybe he’s not so unflappable after all.
“Allison?”
Dave releases me, and I whirl around and look straight into the stunning blue eyes of Prince Nicolo Thierry Ferdinand something-something Bourbon-Parma. “Nicolo. You made it.”
He takes my arm, draws me expertly away from Dave, and kisses my hand. Suddenly I feel like I’m once again in control, no longer transparent with my feelings and emotions on display. “I could not stay away,” Nicolo says.
My cheeks warm. “I’m glad. Nicolo, these are my friends. I think you spoke to Rory on the phone.” I gesture to Rory, who’s standing beside Hunter, staring at the prince like he’s—well, like he’s a prince.
“Hi,” she says.
Nicolo takes her hand and kisses it. “Enchanted.”
Hunter sticks his own hand out, right under Nicolo’s nose. “Hunter Chase. I’m Rory’s boyfriend.”
Nicolo shakes his hand, their grips hard enough to turn their hands white. “Lucky man.”
Men. Everything is a competition. Nicolo looks at Dave, then me. “So, those are my friends,” I say, ignoring Dave. But the jerk refuses to be ignored. He shakes hands with Nicolo and says, “Hi, I’m Dave.”
“Nice to meet you.”
I watch Dave and Nicolo shake, trying to discern how hard they’re squeezing. But it looks like a normal handshake, and I don’t know how to feel about that. Hunter was jealous simply because Nicolo told Rory he was enchanted. But Dave, who’s taken me out and kissed me (and rejected me), doesn’t appear jealous in the least. And Nicolo, who’s here because it was the only opportunity I gave him to see me outside of work, isn’t exactly green with envy after he walks in and sees me in Dave’s arms. Okay, have I completely lost my touch?
“Want a beer, Nicolo?” Dave asks.
“Sure. A Hasen Bräu would be good.”
“What the hell’s that?” Dave asks.
Nicolo frowns. “Then a Kölsch.”
“I think your foreign beer choices are limited to Heineken or Corona,” Hunter offers.
Nicolo glances at me, as if I can shed some light on the beer question, and I hold up my glass. “The gin and tonic isn’t too bad. If you don’t like gin.”
“Ah, nothing then.”
“Sure?” I ask. “Dave’s buying.”
Nicolo laughs, a deep sound that gives me goose bumps. “Money is not the issue. Unfortunately I cannot stay long.”
“Why not? Nicolo”—I pull him into a corner with the neglected dartboards—“you’re not going to leave me here with these—sports fans, are you?”
“I am left with no other choice. Work.” He brings his hand up, and at first I think he’s going to touch my cheek. Instead, he caresses a lock of my hair, lifting it to the light when he reaches the ends. “Like golden fire,” he murmurs. “I am sorry to go, especially as I will miss you more than you will me.” He leans close and brushes his lips over mine. I forget to breathe for a moment as Nicolo’s hand meanders down my back, finally settling on my waist.
“I don’t know about that,” I say when he pulls back. “Nicolo, I know who you are.” I glance at the floor, wondering if he’ll be unhappy that I’ve found out his true identity. Maybe it was part of the reality show, and now I’ve gone and ruined it. When I glance up, Nicolo’s got one brow raised.
“Who I am?”
“You’re a”—I glance around and lower my voice—“a prince.”
He grins and leans close. “It is not a secret.”
Yeah, right. That’s what the writers of the Reality TV Addict’s Guide to What’s Real said he’d say. “Then why didn’t you say so before? Why’d you have Yamamoto introduce you as Mr. Parma?”
He tucks a tangle of hair behind my ear. “Because that is who I am. ‘Prince’ is merely a courtesy title. My family is not poor, but we live and work like everyone else.”
“Oh.” When he says it that way, it’s not quite as exciting. “So, are you leaving on royal business?”
“No. Regular business. I think there has not been royal business for over a hundred years. But if it were royal business, be assured I would take you with me. We princes are good at rescuing damsels in distress.”
There’s a groan from the patio and a chorus of “goddamnits” and “oh, hells.”
“Hopefully, my distress won’t last much longer. I think I talked Rory into leaving early with me to watch The Iron Chef since she’s got seven thousand channels.”
“What a good student. Homework on a Thursday.”
“Do I get an A?”
“Is an A good?”
“Very good.
“Then I give you three.” And he leans down to kiss me again. Very nice. I kiss him back, surprised that kissing a prince isn’t as different as I thought it would be. Strike one for the fantasy.
We stand there talking for another ten minutes or more, hands clasped and Nicolo’s thumb rubbing my palm in slow circles. Before he leaves, he kisses me once more and says, “I know you said you were busy, but I have been invited to a cocktail party tomorrow evening and have no date. If you find that your schedule changes…” He waves a hand.
This guy is good. He’s figured out that a head-on assault isn’t going to work with me. Now he’s trying indifference.
“Of course, inviting you out on such short notice is absolutely inexcusable—”
“Not to mention, we’re working together. I generally avoid dating men I work with,” I add.
“—but I thought you might be interested in meeting my cousin Prince Sixte Louis Charles Vincenz Christian.”
Another prince? Oh, dear. “He’s here from Denmark, too?”
“No, no. He lives in Florida. Palm Beach.”
“Oh.” There’s royalty living in Palm Beach, and I never even knew it. How…unromantic. I should say no, but Nicolo is more than good. Not only has he apologized about the short notice, he throws more royalty into the deal. “Well, how could I miss the chance to meet—?”
“Sixte.”
“Right. But it’s not a date. It’s a professional outing.”
He inclines his head. Smiling, I give him my address and cell number, and he promises his driver will arrive by nine. Then he kisses my hand, all the way to the fingertips, and says something that sounds like silk feels.
“Was that Italian?”
“Sì.”
“What did it mean?”
“Until tomorrow.”
And then he’s gone.
“He didn’t even drink his beer.” Dave walks up and leans on the wall beside me, invading my corner with his broad shoulders and annoying height. I’m five-eight, so he must be at least six feet.
“I guess you’ll have to drink it,” I say, scanning the patio for Rory.
“I don’t want a Heineken. You drink it.” He hands the beer mug to me, but I wave it away.
“Can’t. I’m leaving. Where’s Rory?”
He points to a picnic table, and I spot Rory and Hunter sitting together. They’re completely oblivious to everything around them, locked deep in conversation. Sometimes I wonder what the two of them have to talk about. I mean, she’s a Star Wars sci-fi junkie and he’s an ex-jock marketing exec. And somehow they’re still perfect for each other.
“What are they talking about?”
Dave shrugs. “You know them. It could be anything from intergalactic warfare to organic pet food.”
“Pet food?”
“Hunter wants to get a dog, but Rory doesn’t want him to feed it dead animals.”
I smile. “Yeah, she gave me the same lecture when I got Booboo Kitty.”
Dave shakes his head and drinks the Heineken anyway. “I still can’t believe you named your cat…what you did.”
“Why? I’d end up calling her that anyway. Besides, she looks like a Booboo Kitty.”
“She looks like a mutant feather pillow,” he says not quite softly enough.
“Good thing she’ll never have to see you again. I wish I was so lucky,” I mutter.
I head over to Rory and Hunter. I have to skirt around thirty or so slack-jawed guys, awed by the Laker Girls’ halftime show. Sometimes I miss learning those routines with the other girls. It can be such a rush when you get it right.
“Rory, it’s nine-fifteen. Are you ready?”
“Aw, you have to go already? It’s only halftime,” Hunter says.
“The Iron Chef won’t wait,” Rory says and stands. “Besides, now you can watch the Laker Girls instead of pretending to listen to the genealogical breakdown of Luke Skywalker’s family tree.”
Hunter puts a hand on his chest as if wounded. “But I am interested in Luke Skywalker’s family tree. All those crazy Skywalkers.”
“Bye, Hunter,” I say and pull on Rory’s arm until she detaches her lips from his.
“Did you drive?” I ask as we leave the bar and breathe sports-free air for the first time in several hours.
“No, Hunter did.”
“Okay, we’ll take my car.”
Rory skids to a stop. “Allison, if we take your car you have to promise not to drive like you’re trying to beat the Millennium Falcon at the Kessel Run.”
“Oh-kaay.” We round the corner, and I deactivate the alarm on my BMW Z4 parked on the street. Of course Hunter and Dave would choose a place without valet.
“Allison, that means don’t speed.”
“Rory, I never speed.” I climb into the car, and Rory reluctantly follows. “It just feels faster when I have the top down. You know, physics and all that.” I start the engine, press the button to lower the top, and we’re off.
“Allison!” Rory screams over the wind and my Benny Goodman CD. “I took physics, and I’m not buying it. Creator! Watch out for the pedestrians!”
Ten minutes later, pretty good time to get all the way to Old Town where Rory lives, I say, “Rory, we’re here. You can open your eyes.”
“I am never driving with you again.”
“You always say that.” I pull into the empty parking spot next to her car, and follow her into the apartment building singing “Flat Foot Floogee.” By the time we get to her apartment, Rory’s singing, too. She never stays angry for long.
We burst into her apartment, and I flop on the couch while Rory heads for the kitchen. She reemerges with a bottle of wine and a pint of Double Fudge Brownie. Now we’re talking. Why would anyone want to sit at hard wooden picnic tables, drink warm beer, and watch sweaty grown men run around chasing a ball? This is much better.
Rory hands me a spoon and flips the TV on, surfing until she finds the right channel. The Iron Chef starts in five minutes, so our timing is perfect.
Rory’s still humming the song, then she says, “What’s a floogee? For that matter, what’s a floy, floy or a flou, flou?”
“What’s wrong? You don’t collar this jive?” I say, digging into the pint. “That’s just frisking the whiskers.”
Rory stares at me. “Where did you learn to talk like that?”
“Grandma Holloway. She’d put on her best drape, truck on down to the gin mills in the Land o’ Darkness, and alligator with the hepcats at the Cotton Club. You’ve heard of Cab Calloway, right? She collared him, Duke Ellington, Cole Porter—all the gates and their killer-dillers.”
“It’s almost like speaking Klingon.”
“If you say so. Shh. The show’s starting.”
We watch The Iron Chef, me staring in total incredulity and Rory laughing her ass off.
“This is the stupidest show I’ve ever seen,” I say during a commercial break. “Who is that guy in all the ruffles and gloves? And why is he biting that pepper like he’s some kind of animal?”
“I don’t know,” Rory says around a mouthful of ice cream, “but it’s funny. I like the woman. She’s always excited about the desserts.”
“She’s insane.” I scoop out the last of the ice cream. “How could anyone get excited about a dessert with mushrooms? That’s not dessert. Oh, my God. If this is what Kamikaze Makeover!’s like, I’m doomed.”
There’s a loud pounding, and Rory and I jump. “Who is that?”
Rory rolls her eyes. “Probably Hunter. We didn’t see each other much this week.” She hands me her ice cream spoon and heads for the door, now vibrating. “Cut it out! I’m coming, you Mynok!”
“Why don’t you just move in together already and get it over with?” I say, settling back on the couch. Hunter is going to have to wait until I see whether the Iron Chef or the challenger wins tonight. Poor guys. They both seem really nice.
“We brought bourbon!” a not-so-nice voice bellows. “French, since we know you like them.”
I close my eyes and put my arm over my face. Dave. What the hell is he doing here?
“Are you drunk?” Rory asks Hunter when he stumbles in.
“Not really,” he slurs. “Not as drunk as Dan.”
“Who’s Dan?” Rory says, helping the wobbly Hunter to the chair across from where I’m sitting on the couch.
“Him. Dan.”
“Dave?” Rory says.
“That’s what I said.”
Dave plops down next to me. Right next to me. Rory’s couch is huge, and Dave has to sit practically on top of me. He holds out a half-empty bottle of bourbon. “I’m not drunk.” And he’s probably not. He doesn’t look or sound drunk. Hunter’s such a lightweight. Even in high school he was a goner if he drank anything stronger than beer.
“Want some? It’s like twenty bucks a bottle. French, so I think even Prince Bourbon-Parma would approve.”
I grit my teeth. “His name is Nicolo, and he’s not French. He’s from Roskilde.”
Dave uncaps the bourbon and drinks it straight. Yuck. “Where the hell is Roskilde?”
“Fuck if I know,” Hunter says, and holds out his hand. Dave, idiot that he is, hands Hunter the bottle. Rory snatches it up.
“I’m going to get you water and an aspirin or you’re going to have a hangover tomorrow.”
Hunter smiles at her. “Thanks.”
She ruffles his hair and looks at me and Dave. “Want anything?”
“A gun?”
Rory ignores me and says, “I’ll get you a glass of water, too, Dave.” She disappears into the kitchen.
“After all the trouble I went through getting you a sip of Gatorade the other night, how come you don’t offer to get me a glass of water?” Dave asks me.
“Because I don’t like you.” I grab the arm of the couch and attempt to pull myself out of Dave’s trap. He doesn’t try to stop me, just runs a finger down my back, following the line of my spine all the way to the waistband of my low-rise jean shorts. I freeze.
“You don’t really hate me, do you?” he asks, but his voice is low so Hunter doesn’t hear.
I glance at him over my shoulder, a sarcastic remark all ready to go, but his golden eyes look so sincere that I falter. “You weren’t even jealous, were you?” I whisper.
Shit! Why did I say that? I wasn’t planning to say that.
Dave doesn’t answer right away. He looks like he’s thinking about it, then sort of shrugs and says, “Should I be?”
“What does that mean?” I hiss with a glance at Hunter.
“Means what I said.”
“I was kissing him.”
His face darkens. “Yeah, I saw that,” he mutters.
“So, you don’t care?”
Shut up, Allison. Shut up. You don’t care.
“I don’t like it, but you’re going to do what you want.”
I glance toward the kitchen to see if Rory’s heard the argument, then turn back to Dave. “That’s right. I’ll do what I want.”
I heave myself up, ready to flounce away, when Dave murmurs, “I will, too.”
I round on him. “You will, what? You’re going to cheat on me?”
“Can I cheat? Are we together?”
Goddamnit! Why does he always do this to me? I get all confused and turned around when I talk to him. “You know what I mean!” I finally shout.
Hunter cringes. “You’re not going to throw anything, are you?”
I ignore him. On the couch, Dave spreads his arms over the back and levels his gaze on me. “Maybe I am drunk, because I’m not following you.”
“Forget it. Why are you even here? You don’t like me.”
“Why do you say that?” Dave rests an ankle on his knee, appearing even more relaxed than ever. Meanwhile, I’m as tight as an arrangement by Count Basie.
“You know why.” I turn away from him, intending to join Rory in the kitchen, but she’s standing frozen in the doorway, watching the battle.
“Is all this because I wouldn’t sleep with you?”
My jaw drops, and if I were a cartoon, the top of my head would come off and steam would shoot out. Rory’s hands fly to her mouth to stifle a gasp and Hunter’s lips form an O.
I round on Dave. “Please. I wouldn’t sleep with you if—”
“I was the last man on earth. Yeah, I’ve heard that one before.”
“Then you should know this one, too. Fuck you.” I stomp down Rory’s hallway toward the bathroom. I’m perilously close to tears, but no one needs to know that if I can get the door closed before I start crying. I’m almost there when Dave’s hand snatches my wrist and he pulls me into Rory’s bedroom and shuts the door.
“What are you doing? Get out of the way.” I try to push past him to open the door, but he takes my shoulders and backs me against the wall. Despite the fact that I hate him, I’m breathing hard and the look in his eyes is making me very, very warm.
We stare at each other, then he says, “So you think because I wouldn’t sleep with you that means I don’t like you?”
“I never said that.” I try to think of some biting remark, but a traitorous tear slips free instead.
Dave catches it with a finger. “Are you crying?”
“No.” I sniffle, and three more tears make their getaway. Dave shakes his head. He must have sisters because he’s not freaked out by tears like most guys are.
“Red, have you ever considered that maybe I didn’t sleep with you because I like you?”
“My name is Allison.”
“Allison,” he murmurs and traces a finger along my cheek.
“That doesn’t make any sense. If you liked me—”
“I would have fucked you?” His voice is hard, but his touch is gentle when he runs his hand through my hair to cup the back of my head. “If that was all I wanted from you, I would have taken it. On our first date.”
I snort. “Please.”
He raises an eyebrow, and I shut up. After all, I’m standing here, shoved up against the wall, his arms around me, and his leg parting my thighs. Now isn’t the best time to argue the point. “So what do you want?” I ask, then shiver at the way his eyes darken to goldenrod.
“I don’t know yet.”
I shake my head. “Then just forget the whole thing.”
“I don’t think so.”
Jerk. Who is he to tell me when this—nonrelationship relationship—is over? But before I can correct yet another of his misguided assumptions, he pulls me to him and kisses me. Not his usual playful kiss. Not even a nice kiss. This is not the kind of kiss men give women in movies—at least not the kind I watch. This is hot and rough and so electric I feel like I stuck my finger in the light socket.
And then Dave begins to pull back, and I can’t let him. I should let him, but this kiss is too amazing. So I grab his shirt and pull him closer, and his hands are all over me—in my hair, on my face, cupping my breasts, fitting me to his body. Finally we break apart. I’m panting and Dave’s not exactly unruffled. He leans his head over my shoulder, resting on the wall behind me. His hands are snug on my waist and his breath tickles my ear.
“Still think I don’t want you?” he murmurs, his voice like velvet next to my ear.
“I don’t know.”
“Still crying?”
I stiffen. I hate that he saw that. “No.”
He moves to nuzzle my ear, whispers, “Still hate me?”
“Yes,” I moan. He kisses my neck then my jawbone, his mouth like a slow-acting drug.
“Sure?”
“I never want to see you again,” I say, trying to catch his mouth with mine.
He manages to evade my lips, then kisses me softly on the forehead. Not what I had in mind, and before I even open my eyes, the toad steps back, opens the door, and says, “If you change your mind, you know how to find me.”