I Want You To Want Me. Kathy Love

perfectly.”

      “I know blond hair and brown eyes isn’t as common as some color combinations, but it’s hardly rare. Vittorio isn’t the only guy who’d fit that description.”

      Erika nodded in begrudging agreement even though Jo couldn’t see her. “Well, that might be true. But Philippe also said in my last reading that he was right above me. He was referring to the placement of his card in the reading. But he is quite literally too. He’s staying in the apartment above mine.”

      “Again, that sounds like a coincidence that you are choosing to see as a sign.”

      “Maybe,” Erika agreed. “Maybe.” Still she felt like there was something there—some truth.

      “Are you interested in him? Is he into you?”

      “Kind of.” Erika considered last night. Vittorio had been so different than in their other encounters. “I mean, initially he was kind of…well, rude.”

      “That sounds promising. And princelike,” Jo said.

      Erika knew Jo was teasing, but it still didn’t feel good. Rudeness was hardly a promising start to a romance. Was she just seeing what she wanted to see from his behavior last night?

      “But last night, I had this horrible nightmare. Honestly, one of the most frightening things I’ve ever experienced, and I must have been screaming or something, because he came down to check on me. And he stayed until I fell back to sleep.”

      “Well, that was nice.”

      “Yes,” Erika agreed, although now that she’d said it aloud, Vittorio’s behavior didn’t sound like anything out of the ordinary. Surely anyone, given the same situation, would act that way.

      Then she glanced back to the bolted lock.

      “But the weird thing is,” she said slowly, “I know my door was locked. It’s one of those dead bolts that you either have to lock from the inside or use a key. Yet, he got inside. He left while I was sleeping, and it’s locked now too. Isn’t that weird?”

      Again there was silence, then Jo said, “Erika, he’s Ren’s brother. If he has a key to the upstairs apartment, then he likely has one to yours, too.”

      Erika’s shoulders, which she hadn’t realized had been drawn up, relaxed. Of course.

      She laughed weakly. “You’re right. I don’t know why I didn’t think of that. I guess the nightmare must have shaken me more than I realized.”

      Jo made a sound of agreement, then she added, “I do think you are seeing that psychic person too much. And taking too much stock in what he says. Those tea leaf places are just for entertainment. They’re a business. You can’t believe what they say.”

      Erika considered mentioning that Philippe had predicted she’d move to New Orleans within the past year, and that her art would finally get some recognition. She glanced at Boris, now sated and asleep atop her crumpled duvet. He’d even predicted her finding a stray cat. And not any cat. A black cat.

      But she didn’t bother mentioning any of this to Jo. Her friend simply didn’t believe in psychic phenomena. Or anything paranormal. She liked a good ghost story as much as the next person, but she didn’t believe a word of them.

      Jo must have sensed awkwardness in the silence, because she changed the subject to Erika’s art show, and her impending visit.

      By the time Erika flipped her cell phone shut, she did feel calmer. While Jo didn’t understand Erika’s belief in mysticism, she had been a good voice of reason about the lock. And Erika wasn’t so wrapped up in her otherworldly interests that she really believed Vittorio had some magical ability to undo locks with his mind or whatever.

      Ridiculous.

      For the first time in a long time, Erika turned her attention to her art, getting some work done that she was actually pleased with. There was still the lopsided bust that she couldn’t seem to fix, but she did finish a smaller piece she’d started earlier.

      Pleased, she wiped her hands on one of her ever-ready rags, then checked her watch. It was after 3 p.m. No wonder her stomach was growling.

      She wandered to her fridge, only to find a take-out box with a salad that had seen much better days, a twelve-pack of Diet Coke, and some yogurt. She grabbed a soda and headed toward the bathroom.

      She’d grab a shower, then a late lunch at her favorite place, The Napoleon House. Maybe when she got back, she’d see some signs of Vittorio. She hadn’t heard a sound from the apartment overhead all day.

      She caught herself. She wasn’t supposed to be thinking about him, having decided as she worked that she wasn’t going to search him out. When she saw him, she’d thank him for his kindness last night, and that was it.

      If Philippe was right, Vittorio would come to her. If not, he wasn’t her prince.

      Erika walked into the restaurant, greeted by Jean-Pierre, a short, somewhat stocky waiter with a haircut shorn very close to his scalp.

      “Good afternoon, mademoiselle. How are you today?”

      “Very well,” she said, “and you?”

      “Excellent, excellent.”

      Erika smiled as he led her to her favorite table out in the open courtyard. Some people didn’t like to be recognized as a regular, but she did. She liked going to a shop or a restaurant and being remembered. Another reason she loved New Orleans, people made the effort to remember you. And to be friendly.

      She was glad she’d made the choice to come here. Even if it was in part a decision based on Philippe’s psychic recommendation.

      She sat down and ordered a diet soda. Diet Coke was her biggest vice. Pretty mild as far as vices went.

      Picking up the menu, she perused the food choices, although she knew she’d probably order the crawfish étoufée. Her favorite dish here.

      “Excuse me?” A deep melodic voice sounded by her right ear. Startled, she twisted to look at the speaker.

      “I thought that was you. What a small world.”

      Erika stared at the large man beside her, unable to speak for a moment.

      It was the man she’d run into on St. Louis. Literally.