Page 16 of De-Witched

Not even a speck of surprise at that revelation. Overprotective: look it up and there would be her friends’ defiant faces.

“Really? Huh. Weird.” She leaned against the bar, closer to him. “So, your name is Gabriel?”

He stood on the other side, tall, imposing, his mouth a severe line.

She kept the smile, waiting.

Waiting.

Waiting.

Uneasily waiting.

And yet, he did nothing.

She couldn’t take it. She broke the silence again. “How are you finding it all?”

Still nothing.

Just as she wondered if she needed to break out her interpretive dance skills, he said, “Why haven’t I heard that a...” He caught himself. “...a third person works here?”

“Owns,” she corrected, straightening on a small bounce, anxious energy shooting through her from head to toes. “They must have forgotten to mention it.”

He absorbed that, face cold even as his eyes flashed.

This could not be the same man from the balcony. Okay, so he hadn’t exactly been the life of the party then, but he’d been livelier than this.

There’d been a connection. They’d kissed. Well, practically.

Her rose-colored glasses slipped down her nose a little.

She gave it another shot, natural optimism butting against the smoke screen he was putting up. “Are you enjoying the job?”

“It’s fine,” he said flatly.

“I know it can be overwhelming, all the drinks and everything, so if you need any help—”

“I don’t need your help,” he cut in, dismissive as hell and so sharp, Leah felt the prick of the words on her exposed skin.

She tried to keep her cool. “Look, I think we got off on the wrong foot. Once you get to know me—”

“I don’t want to get to know you.”

Her jaw hit the floor.

“I have to clean.” Leaving her gaping, he strode to the other end of the bar, where he picked up a towel and rubbed it over the already-clean surface.

Mortified, she stared at him as anger surged in every inch of her body.

How. Freaking. Rude.

If there was one thing she hated, it was rudeness.

Well...damn it. They’d been right. Kole, Emma, Tia. The Warlock of Contempt in all his glory had just dissed and dismissed her in her own bar. Worse, she’d been weaving this romantic fantasy about how lonely and misunderstood he was because of a few stolen minutes.

And even worse, she’d argued for his job here. Like the patsy she was, she’d read into his actions and believed he could be the warlock of her dreams.

Logically, she knew a warlock and a human weren’t endgame. But it had been a nice fantasy before he’d dashed any hopes she had on the rocks they served with expensive vodka.

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