Page 8 of Angel's Temper

A throng of people shuffled out the door, hitching overstuffed coat collars high around necks otherwise bared to the frigid New Hampshire elements. Coats that were unzipped, of course, because tourists somehow believed themselves exempt from wind chills.

Move on. Just move on.

Brass urged his legs to hoof a beeline straight for the churro truck, but his damn eyes couldn’t resist a peek at a temptation he had no business indulging in.

She wouldn’t be there anyway. It was obviously a new restaurant, which meant new employees, new customers, new?—

Through the front window, a shock of dark hair shot up from under a table, followed by the swipe of a forearm across a brow that, even from Brass’s distance, revealed far more worried creases than when he’d last seen it.

When he’d last seen her.

As if he needed more proof of his torturous curse.

In the quiet hours of the evening, when the minerals in the great mountain he and his brothers lived beneath recharged his power and shut out the rest of the terrors plaguing him, new ones would burrow in good and deep for the night. Two, to be exact. Two espresso-rich eyes among elfin features that batted around his bruised brain, soothing away tremors that had only recently begun to surface the closer he inched toward the solstice.

Tremors that would latch onto him with teeth and talons.

He’d only met Molly Resnick a handful of times after guarding his brother Chrome’s soul bond, and Molly’s roommate, Drea, from demon charmers and later helping Drea move into their den. The visceral reaction to Molly had been the gut punch he hadn’t seen coming. Each encounter, though brief, produced a storm that jolted him off his anchor, thrusting him inexplicably toward something he couldn’t see.

Or fight.

Brass balled his hands into fists and shifted his weight behind a lamppost. Curiosity rooted him to the pavement as he observed the woman he’d tried to forget. Her dark waves had been tamed into a stringent bun that sat low on the back of her head and was completely at odds with the flyaway strands of her bangs. A starched denim-colored half-bistro apron was cinched around hips that had shimmied away from him with undue haste the last time he’d seen her at her and Drea’s apartment.

When he’d lifted a box containing a Dutch oven from her hands before she could refuse his help and she’d promptly whirled around, shuttled herself down the hall, and slammed a door between her and whatever the hell it was that had him constantly turning his head in her direction.

A crash reverberated from behind the window glass, wrenching his and several customers’ attention toward the commotion. Molly was holding a large circular serving tray flat against her body, practically hugging the sodden thing like a shield as liquid and partially melted ice cubes slid down its surface to pool on the floor—a floor now littered with broken ceramic mugs and drinking glasses.

Where the hell was the busser? Or other waitstaff? Brass knew Molly was a chef, and an amazing caliber one at that judging by the write-ups he had not made a point of reading shortly after they’d been introduced. When had she taken on serving duties as well? Why? And more to the freaking point, why was no one helping her? Even a hostess or dishwasher would surely have scrambled forward to help with such a mess, especially during prime service hours. Hell, the broken glass alone should have sounded some sort of front-of-house alarm given how many toddlers were hobbling around the place.

But no one moved. Once diners ascertained that the mess was being dealt with, they casually returned to their meals as if the entire fiasco had been no more than another loud noise their brains had lumped into the auditory pile of forks tinkling on plates and knives scraping jam on toast.

One man, a tall, greasy fellow with more hair on his chest sprouting from his V-neck than he had clinging to his scalp, nudged past Molly, bumping into her hip and disrupting the pile of broken glass she’d neatly amassed.

Blood pounded a battle cry against Brass’s temples. The cool metal of his gun kissed his palm before he even realized he’d grabbed the thing. Around him, happy families with too many kids and not enough hands to grab them all leaked out onto the sidewalk like newly emancipated prisoners.

Who very much did not need to see a six-foot-four-inch guy in a trench coat lose his mages-loving mind while clutching his GLOCK 9mm semiautomatic pistol outside of a pancake joint.

Brass holstered his piece at his back. Once secure, he scanned the crowd—both inside and out—for the man who was about to have his face rearranged. Instead, his eyes snagged on the Help Wanted sign perched on the outside of the window. In the background, Molly had popped up from the floor, this time with the serving tray laden with debris hoisted high on a slim shoulder carrying far more than the weight of broken dishes.

Something behind those eyes was broken, her dark brows drooped in obvious exhaustion. With a little hop to redistribute the weight, she was off through the kitchen door, leaving the diners to their own devices.

A sharp tug brushed across Brass’s skin, urging him to move with her, toward her. He fought it, tensing against the sensation and the knowledge that he was about as good to be around Molly as a Cat 5 hurricane was for any island in the tropics.

He should run. Fling himself into the street and hope a bus took care of his laundry list of problems if it would keep him away from her.

And yet his boots moved toward the front door anyway. His insistent strides never faltered, even as his shoulders parted the throngs of people clogging up the pavement.

Before he wrenched open the door, he paused a moment, then yanked the Help Wanted sign out of the window and strode in.

Chapter 4

Ceramic shards tumbled into the garbage can, along with Molly’s will to live, or, at the very least, the desire to show her face to anyone who’d bore witness to her mortified misery. If there had been a heavy, preferably well-hidden surface she could crawl under and hibernate beneath for a good long while, she’d nab her secret stash of Stella D’oros and make a month of it. The little goblin in her brain who wanted to throw itself in front of this particular traumatic situation and warn her away from the embarrassment awaiting her in the dining room had her scanning the kitchen for tight, well-tucked corners.

Of course, there was one hideaway that would always be there for her. Her original den of iniquity turned haven and the place toward which her feet marched out a childish stomping session.

Better to make a racket that way than have the customers hear her sobbing wails of shame.

I can’t do this.

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