Page 72 of De-Witched

“Don’t accuse me of lying.” His eyes shone greener, if that was possible.

“You know I’d want to know. It’s my place, Gabriel.”

“And I wanted to take care of it first. For you.”

It made her falter.

“I was planning on telling you tomorrow, when we’re both scheduled to be in. I didn’t want it to play on your mind all night when nothing could be done. I won’t apologize for that.”

God help her. How was a woman meant to deal with Gabriel Goodnight? She stared at him, confused, touched. His actions were sweet and misguided and irritating because he was right. It would have been on her mind all night.

Even so, someone needed to yank Gabriel into the twenty-first century. Good thing she was woman enough to take up the challenge.

She released a breath and stepped forward, teasingly close to touching his knees. “Okay, I appreciate the thought. But you can’t make those decisions for me, not if you respect me at all. I had a right to know as soon as it happened, even if you thought it was going to worry me.” She quirked an eyebrow. “Do you respect me?”

“Of course.”

“Then, respect me enough to tell me bad news.”

Mulishly, he stared her down. Finally, he gave a clipped nod. And she could breathe again.

Easing her grip on the righteous anger, she patted his cheek. The barest hint of stubble grazed her palm. “It was very sweet of you, though.”

“I am not sweet,” he informed her loftily. Cranky.

Adorable. She smiled now, a bright beam. “Goodnights aren’t sweet?”

“Sweet doesn’t get things done.”

Her smile stretched into a grin. “Of course. This yours?” Before he could answer, she lifted his beer, took a swig. Then caught sight of the man on the neighboring stool gaping at her. Mortified, she looked at the beer. “Shit. Is this yours?”

The handsome man with platinum hair grinned. “No, sorry,” he said, his voice deeper than she’d expected. “I’ve just never seen Gabriel admit he was wrong.”

Gabriel gave him a bland look.

“You know Gabriel?” It hit her then what that meant. Warlock. She disguised the instant of excitement, forcing her expression to stay casual. “You’re from New Orleans?”

The stranger lifted his hand in a half greeting. “Henry.”

Her eyes widened, mind turning on a dime to race in a different direction. “Henry?”

He grimaced. “You must know Tia.”

“You ever going to say hello to me?”

Leah swiveled at the mock-affronted question. She grinned, boosting herself up and giving Bastian a smacking kiss on the cheek. “Who could forget about you, handsome?” She winked at him. “How about a beer on the house?”

“Since you own the house, why not?”

Leah shifted back to Henry as Bastian went to fetch her a beer. “So, you’re Tia’s ex?” And he was here, in her bar. Should she throw him out? She studied his arms, the muscled form, reconsidered. Should she get Bastian to throw him out?

“To save you from asking the question that’s all over your face,” Henry stated wryly, tapping a hand on the counter, revealing some edginess. “I’m only here because Bastian asked me to swing by so he could hit me up for a favor. Trust me, Tia and I know to keep a state between us.”

God, she had so many questions. Like, a ballpark full. But, since it felt disloyal to gossip behind her friend’s back, Leah focused elsewhere. All innocence, she commented, “A long way from New Orleans for a favor.”

She jumped when Gabriel’s hand settled at the small of her back. She glanced his way, caught the warning flash. She grinned at him.

Henry merely flashed his own smile. “Private jet. And it gave me a chance to catch up with old friends.”

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