Leave it to Fate by Keri Armstrong (Leave it to Fate 1)
English | 2020 | Fantasy | ePUB | 2.8 MB
The line she drew between fantasy and reality was already thin. Then he came along with an eraser.
Meghan’s friends and foster families all abandoned ship when they experienced how she dealt with loneliness; it was easier to let mental health professionals handle her.
But that was several years ago. She has since grown up and doesn’t need anyone in her life – least of all dangerous, imaginary friends. So, why is she hallucinating one now?
Puck’s task to save his life was simple: switch a human baby for a fae infant, with no one the wiser until time to reunite the Faerie family with their child.
But time moves differently between human and fae realms, and kids don’t always behave how one might hope. Like that girl he turned his back on for two minutes … how dare she disappear and keep him from fulfilling a critical bargain?
My grown-up (and apparently perverted) brain might have changed his outward appearance in the eighteen years since I last saw—imagined—him, but my auditory hallucination of his voice was the same: Totally still Spike from Buffy the Vampire Slayer.
Even at a young age, that accent got to me. I opened my eyelids but tried to ignore him. He wasn’t allowing it. Three deep breaths later, I still stared at his dazzling display of teeth.
How had my prepubescent brain ever cooked up such a smile? I remember thinking he was pretty when I was a child, and I would always get caught up in his mischievous grin, but was he ever so … so … overwhelmingly male?
He was certainly never so naked.
“Aw, sorry love, too much for you? Shall I tone it down a bit?” He swept the cloak from his shoulders and fastened it around his waist. The switch created a gold-starred tent that pointed to the tawny, chiseled six pack and narrow waist above it. And without the purple satin, the broad shoulders and defined arms were bare to the sun. They glimmered nearly as much as his neon-blue eyes and perfect smile. The white-blond hair that fell to his waist also glistened, just as it always had.
As a child, I’d envied that hair. Probably because I hated being teased about my curly carrot top. But he’d claimed to love my curls. Amazing how the young brain tried to compensate in such a sad orphan. I’d endowed him with all I didn’t have—beauty, confidence, and fun.
Tamping down the ironic smile that threatened the edges of my lips, I reminded myself how all those adventures with my imaginary friend had ended in heartache. At the age of ten, I’d been labeled psychotic and kicked out of my favorite foster family. Blaming “Puck”, as I had called him (much to his amusement), I banished him from ever visiting me again.