Free Agent Read Free Page A

It was an Italian place at the corner of the pier, and I knew Grimm had a table with my name on it. “Table for Goldilocks,” I said. I didn’t have blond hair but that’d always been Grimm’s nickname for me. If I was doing something, it would be done just right.
    The host looked at his reservations and nodded. It was supposed to be hard to get a reservation here, but I practically had a standing appointment. He took me on through to my table on the patio. I could watch the ferries come and go, and the prince, well, he could watch me.
    I handed back my menu to the waiter without looking. “I’ll have the usual.” I scanned the crowd, then popped the compact open. “Grimm. You might have left out something important.”
    â€œMarissa, close that at once, and go ahead and remove your bracelet.”
    Grimm was right. While most princes were so self-absorbed they’d miss a giant, there was the occasional exception that paid attention, and they might be able to see Grimm. Questions about the “Man in the Mirror” would be somewhat awkward at this stage of the relationship. I’d be flying solo for a bit. With his permission, the bracelet hung limp instead of clamped to my wrist.
    â€œYou might have forgotten to mention what he looks like.”
    Grimm huffed at me. “My dear, he’s a prince.”
    So I took the bracelet off and put it in my purse. When I was younger I’d tried running once. I’d put the bracelet in a bag and threw the bag off into the water and ran. I’d made it six blocks away to the bus station when I realized the bracelet was hanging from my wrist. Grimm stood in the window of the terminal watching me, but he never said a word. I did my running on the track after that.
    Without the bracelet, my compact was a round mirror attached to a tray full of base that gave me hives if I wore it. I didn’t need it to tell me that my hair had enough curl to misbehave, and not enough to flow in waves over my shoulders. I worked hard at being the wrong woman. My mother always said I’d never turn heads. I told Grimm that once and he said all I needed to do was turn hearts.
    I’d have loved to be beautiful. To have flawless skin and a nose that didn’t look tiny, or eyes that didn’t look like my father was part bat. Grimm said the men loved my large brown eyes. I didn’t. I wanted blue eyes like Mom and Dad, but you didn’t get a say in genetic roulette. If I ever got to go home, I was planning on asking Grimm to change my eyes to be like them. A push-up bra and a firm running regimen were the other components of my beauty treatment. To be the wrong woman you didn’t have to look great, just available and interested.
    I looked for a prince. He was the real deal, and that was why Grimm wouldn’t take any chances on being spotted. So our prince would have the shine. They all did, and anyone with the slightest relation to magic could see it on them. Even the normal folks could tell in their own way, recognizing that man who walked by with the gleam and the look. The women wanted to melt into him. The men all wanted to be him or beat him. Life was hard for princes.
    I saw him from halfway down the pier. Black hair cut short, wide shoulders, and arms that looked like they could pull a tree out by the roots. He wasn’t all that attractive, but if you were a prince you didn’t have to be. The tiny scar on his cheek could have been from battling a dragon, or a skiing accident, or any of those other acts of derring-do princes were known for. I waited at my seat, making sure my wineglass was just so and my fork just right.
    Grimm didn’t deal in essence or evocation, usually. That wasn’t his style, though I wouldn’t say he couldn’t do it. He dealt with direction, and he was truly talented. The prince and I were two random people among thousands. I knew his steps, and the directions, and every