Page 34 of De-Witched

“No pressure, but we thought we’d shoot the shit, flirt with the pretty bartender.”

As Gabriel opened his mouth to refuse them again, Mitch added, “We want you to come. One drink.”

Gabriel stopped, twisting in place. He’d said no. He’d meant it.

But... They wanted him to come. Him. Nobody ever wanted Gabriel. They wanted a Goodnight.

He rolled his shoulders against the tide of discomfort, found himself saying, “One, then.”

Frankie grinned, clapping him on the shoulder again. “Attaboy. Let’s grab the others and we’ll head over.”

To T and T. Gabriel didn’t catch on until he found himself standing outside the establishment that had hired and fired him quicker than some potions took to brew.

And the pretty bartender, he realized as their group of five walked in, was none other than a short blonde whose big blue eyes rounded when they landed on him.

Disbelief? Speculation?

Whatever it was, it made him want to hunch his shoulders like a teenage warlock caught in Jackson Square telling fortunes to drunk tourists.

Mitch offered to grab a booth with Peter and Jasper, the other two volunteers, so it was Frankie and a reluctant Gabriel that went to the bar.

“Rack ’em up, darlin’.” Frankie’s teeth gleamed out of his beard as he smacked the bar top. “Shots all around.”

Gabriel stood quietly. He hadn’t seen Leah in a few days and when she laughed, the impact went straight to his head. Not that he showed it.

“This should be good,” she commented, with a side-eye at Gabriel. “All right, boys. Pick your poison.”

“Tequila. Tequila, lads?” Frankie called back to the others. A cheer rang out.

“Just curious, Gabe,” Leah said as she turned to the shelf that was, he noticed with some satisfaction, still organized as he’d set it up one boring Sunday. “Have you ever had a shot?”

“Yes.” Years ago.

“Hmm.” She poured the tequila into five short glasses and set out a small plate, added five lime wedges, and then a saltshaker. She lifted her brows when Gabriel stopped Frankie from paying by thrusting out a fifty-dollar note. She accepted it with a finger and thumb, studying him with an interest that made his feet shift. “You don’t strike me as a man who gets loose.”

“Maybe you don’t know as much about me as you think.”

“I bet I do.”

He scoffed, barely noticing when Frankie grabbed all but one glass and toted them away. “I doubt that.”

Challenge gleamed on her face. “I’m a bartender. Some might call us professional readers of human nature.”

“I’m different.” And she knew it.

“Hmm.” The look she shot him under her lashes was poignant with meaning that neither of them would say aloud. “How much do you want to bet?”

“I don’t bet.”

“Why? Is that a commoner thing, something the glorious Goodnights don’t do?”

“You can’t goad me.”

She smiled. “Want to bet?”

Unwilling amusement moved through him. He stifled it by throwing her a superior look. “I will not argue with you.”

“This isn’t arguing. This is a conversation. You might not have heard of it but it’s where two people talk about something they find interesting.”

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